Drow in the City Ch. 03

"It is an elven tradition," Lura said dismissively. "Do not worry yourself with it, it's nothing."

"It's something," Mikhail said, seeing through the weak smile Lura offered. "Tell me."

Lura sighed, looking down at the stones, then back up at Mikhail. "It is what elves do when they find a lover that they want to spend the rest of their not-so-short lives with. For humans, it is called marriage."

"Oh," Mikhail said, a sly smile finding his face. "How's that make you feel, then?"

"Stop it," Lura said, flipping her hair dismissively while hiding her feelings in the process. In truth, it was not the first time such an idea had entered her mind, but while a part of her fancied the idea of bonding herself with Mikhail. He was only human though. In less than a century, he would be old and gray, if not already dead, and, should she not fall to an enemy's sword or disease, she would still have several more centuries of life left. Her logic dictated that it would not be worth the pain of losing a loved one, especially one that had grown so dear to her, for a few decades' pleasure. She couldn't allow herself to succumb to her emotional need to bond with Mikhail. Could she?

"Fine then," Mikhail said, a little disappointed. "Perhaps another time we can discuss this?"

"Yes, perhaps," Lura said weakly, already feeling her walls of drow pragmatism crumbling at the thought of bonding with her human lover.

*****

Cyra had a warm meal of roasted pheasant in blackberry sauce settling nicely in her stomach when she led Samon out of the Dragon to Dandril's establishment. When they came to his door, Cyra was discouraged to find the gauntlet symbol of Torm on Dandril's door. Torm, a god that championed good and lawfulness, a deity who's followers were primarily paladins and clerics, stood against the kind of wanton, depraved behavior of Sharess and Sune. A hiss found its way to Cyra's throat.

"Perhaps I should handle this," Samon said, noticing her uneasiness.

"Indeed," Cyra said. "Kiss me first." Samon did so, with gusto, pulling the tiefling's sexual form against him, crushing her breasts against his chest while his tongue invaded her mouth in a moist dance of passion and desire. He broke the kiss abruptly, leaving Cyra gasping for air. She grinned as Samon rapped on the door.

"Who is it," a gruff voice called.

"I am Samon Armanov, son of Lord Armanov. I wish to discuss a matter of business with you," Samon said, standing with his shoulders back and chest out. There was a moment of silence, then the rattle of locks being thrown. The door opened, and the man on the other side was handsome enough to make Cyra suppress a gasp. She was thankful for her modest attire. Her pants weren't tight enough to be suggestive, and her camisole was covered enough to diminish her impressive cleavage, though she certainly hadn't intended it that way. The man immediately glared at her, noticing first her horns, then her ruddy skin.

"The son of a lord cavorting with a tiefling? Speak your business now, I'll not allow the unclean into my abode," he snapped. Cyra scowled almost as deeply as Dandril did behind his thick goatee. The man had it meticulously trimmed, though it's thickness was another story. She imagined it might be impossible to shave without a keen scimitar. His hair, black with flecks of silver from his middle age, was neatly trimmed as well, cut short on the sides and smoothly blending with the longer top, which was combed neatly, as a naval captain might keep his hair.

"The tiefling has actually recently discovered herself a divine champion, of sorts," Mikhail said, "so she might not be as unclean as you are so quick to assume."

"What deity would stoop so low as to champion devilspawn?" Dandril asked.

"Sharess," Cyra declared in a voice that held a distinct double-tone. The hair on Samon's neck stood on end as he glanced at the tiefling. "The Dancing Lady has made me her celebrant. I am as much a conduit of her power as a paladin of Torm is to his god."

"Torm is a just god, a righteous god. Sharess is nothing but a debauched, hedonistic harlot among the gods. She has no more right to dwell among the upper planes as you do in my home. Begone!" Dandril shouted.

"Not so fast," Samon said, and edge in his voice. "Lord Armanov has taken personal interest in the business I am attempting to conduct with you. It would behoove you to hear my words before you dismiss us."

"Fine," Dandril said after a moment. "But only because I respect the works of your father. He's a just man, knows his place and respects the law. But speak fast, my tolerance of the vile one at your side is waning."

Samon explained the expansion of the Dreaming Dragon to Dandril, omitting any business that might include Sune, Sharess, Festhalls, and orgies, and Dandril looked at Samon with hard eyes.

"Never appreciated having a tavern next door. Only a step down from a brothel, if you ask me. But if Lord Armanov has plans for it, and is going to bestow me a private home, away from the impurities of taverns and harlots, in the richer side of town, then I will comply. I'll have my things gone in less than a tenday."

"Thank you, Dandril. My father will be pleased to hear this, and will look favorably on you. He may even consider owing you a debt of gratitude," Samon said.

"I would be honored," Dandril said, his voice gruff again. "Now if you don't mind, get that slut off my doorstep." He shut the door, slamming it loudly and quickly latching it.

"I'd show him what a slut I can be," Cyra said. "What I wouldn't give to defile his bed with you."

"Likewise," Samon said. "But enough of this. I do not like that he insulted you; it offends me. Let us be on to happier things."

"Like what?" Cyra asked as they turned back to the Dragon. They both glimpsed Lura and Mikhail at the entrance, and though they were a good deal away, Cyra could tell Samon was eyeing the drow's curves. "Ah, I see," the tiefling said coyly. "She tastes as good as she looks."

"What? I wasn't even...really? Not that I'd do that, being with you and all..." Samon was cut off by Cyra's laughter.

"Relax, Samon. Lura and I are not afraid to share, remember? Mikhail was fucking us both real proper when you delivered our wine the other night. I'm sure she'd go a few rounds with us if that's what you wanted."

Samon felt his loins stir with excitement at the thought. "I think, somehow, I would be ok with that," he said sarcastically, reaching to Cyra's firm buttocks for a good feel. "I don't think her body is quite as nice as yours, though."

"Oh really?" Cyra asked. "That'd be a first, I think."

"Aye...for one, your breasts are larger. Your stomach and arms are taut with muscle borne from fighting, as well as your firm thighs. And your ass...my dear, your ass is unbeatable."

"Samon, handsome...are you a butt man?" Cyra asked, giggling a little.

"I must confess, I do enjoy ass," he replied grinning at her as her long fingers wrapped around his forearm.

*****

Iliara, of course, knew the brewing plans for the Dreaming Dragon, and despite her loyalties to Shar, she couldn't help but feel excited by the prospect of a Sunite Festhall under her bed. The possibilities of such a decadent, sexual venue were endless to her. Therein lay her predicament. Something about Lura, something about Sune, was appealing to what little love was left in her, while the influence of her goddess, Shar, the Lady of Loss, was attempting to crush that glimmer of light left in her darkened soul.

The elf tightened the ties of her studded leather vest, then smoothed the form-fitting sleeves of her under-tunic. She may have been a servant of Shar, but she was still had to make a living. It just so happened that being an assassin, a bringer of loss, aligned with Shar's universal will. It was not the first time she had been hired to slay a local lord or lady, but this time was different. Her employer was a devout follower of Torm. But Iliara was not choosy, and pretending to be a follower of a lawful, just god didn't make him pay any less for her services.

She pulled on her tall boots, her tight leather leggings comfortable inside the shin-high boots. The elf stood comfortably on the soft leather soles and climbed out the window of her apartment, making not a sound as she made the roof and silently quickstepped across. She dropped off the back of the tavern, falling into a roll to protect herself from damage and traveled the shadows to the richer parts of Everlund.

Iliara jumped from shadow to shadow across town until she was in a well-lit, ornately decorated part of town, and was standing before a large brick home. This was her target's home, a lord in good standing, but known for his ruthless business dealings and shady after-hours habits. Iliara knew them well, for her employer had been loose with his information. Either this was a trap, Iliara thought, or a very easy job.

Hiding in the shadows, she watched the darkened windows with Shar-enhanced vision. She saw as clearly in the darkened windows as easily as day, though in shades of grey. A figure passed through one window, into a next, and paused, looking around the room he was in as if sensing her presence. She grinned.

Iliara sprinted to the wall, shrouded in a veil of shadow that made her invisible to curious eyes. She scaled the brick wall with ease, using barely perceptible divots and vines that scaled the walls as handholds. When she reached the window sill, she pulled herself up slowly, until she could just see through the window, into the room it led to. It was empty, and she pulled shadows around her, letting them consume her. She was in the Shadow Fringe, a part of the Plane of Shadow that bordered so close with the Prime Material Plane that it allowed her to see her surroundings, yet manipulate them with her power of the shadows. The elf walked through the glass window as if it had been a thin waterfall.

She emerged from the Fringe into the "real" world, and all the sensations returned to her. The mansion was warm. Iliara could smell wax candles being burnt in the next room. She heard irregular, staccato slaps of flesh on flesh. A wry grin found her face as she silently stepped through the room, to the door that led to the next room. Behind it, she heard the smacking sounds, and decided some reconnaissance was in order. Pulling strands of darkness from her surroundings, she drew a square on the door, then spoke a word of power. The square filled with swirling shadows for a moment, then the shadows disappeared, leaving a window that only she could see through. Her breath caught in her throat as the view she was greeted with surprised her.

There was a wooden stockade in the middle of the room, and a man wearing a black hood was locked inside it. He was naked, bent over at the waist, and had long red welts on his backside. Iliara turned her focus to the administrator of punisher. She was somewhat pleased to see that it was a woman with pale blonde hair, naked save for stiletto heels and a metal and leather collar around her neck. She held a rope in her hand that was attached by a leather loop to the man's genitals.

Iliara thought for a moment that she could distract herself for a moment with her fingers while she watched the woman. Her breasts were a solid handful each, with long nipples. Her legs were long and willowy, as were her arms, and each were built for sensuality. Not hard and strong like, for instance, the tiefling that associated herself with Lura, or even the drow's arms which were honed from swordplay. This woman's body was soft, a product, no doubt, of a life of wealth and luxury. Iliara's gaze sat on the woman's hips for a moment, admiring their flare, a product of multiple child births.

Her fingers had just found the small cleft between her thighs when the woman smacked her hand across the man's backside, and the sound of bare feet and muttering voices was carried down a hall into the room Iliara was in. Silently reprimanding herself, she diverted her hand from her crotch to the nearest dagger on her hip. She slowly drew it, her hand over the blade to prevent any light from the outside reflecting off of it. Iliara quickly stepped to a corner and crouched behind a table and two chairs, watching.

A young woman, probably just past her second decade of life, waded into the room wearing a wispy, gauzy nightgown that Iliara could see completely through. She had breasts much like the woman in the next room, perhaps a bit smaller, but much perkier. Following behind her was what appeared to be a handmaiden of sorts. She was fully clothed in a thick robe to ward off the cold.

"Come here, Greta," the beautiful young lady said, brushing a wavy golden lock from her face. "See what happens at night in this house." Iliara grinned, her suspicions confirmed.

Greta, a slightly younger girl with her dirty blonde hair up in a messy bun, padded over to where the woman's daughter stood. Iliara perked up when the young woman started whispering arcane words. "Mistress Varla," Greta whispered in warning. "You're not supposed to use the Art in the house, by your father's word!"

Varla finished the spell and the door became transparent on the one side, just like Iliara's shadow window, they could see through on their side, but on the other side of the door, it was as solid and opaque as solid wood. Greta gasped audibly when she witnessed the older woman smack the man again, tugging on the rope tethered to his genitals. He groaned out loud, and she reached between his legs from behind to stroke his erect member.

"Mistress," Greta said, "is that..."

"Yes, my pet," Varla said, her eyes locked on Greta's face. "How does it make you feel?"

Iliara was taken by Varla's sharp features, high, noble cheek bones, and her intense eyes.

"I...I don't know, mistress," Greta whispered. Varla leaned forward suddenly, her lips and tongue caressing the girl's ear and neck.

"How does that make you feel, then," Varla said. Iliara could barely hear the young woman's voice with her elven ears.

"It...I ought not say, mistress, it is forbidden for a servant to associate with her masters in such a way," Greta whispered in response.

"Foolish girl," Varla whispered harshly. Her hand went to Greta's hair and yanked back while her other hand grasped the servant's mouth to muffle her surprised squeak. "I will have what I desire. I see you around here and I know your body is not as fluffy and soft as the others. Your body was made for something more than scrubbing dishes and mopping my floors. Take off your robe."

Greta was quick to comply, though Iliara suspected it was more out of fear than desire. She wore nothing under her sleeping robe except for a cotton undergarment over her loins. Iliara watched Varla pull the panties down a bit, revealing a tuft of soft dark hair.

"Disgusting," Varla said. "After tonight, you will keep your nethers bare of any hair, do you understand Greta?" The girl nodded. "Very good. Do you like my body? Answer me truthfully."

"I...I have always liked your body, mistress," Greta whispered in a quivering voice.

"You like girls then?" Varla queried.

"S-some, yes. I like boys too, though," Greta said quickly.

"Have you ever been with a girl?" Varla asked, walking around behind Greta. She pointed through the door at the older woman who was kneeling behind the man, her tongue lapping hungrily at his sack while her hand stroked him masterfully.

"I've kissed one, but never laid with one," Greta said timidly. Varla walked around in front of her, placing her hands on Greta's shoulders. They were a bit wider than Varla's, and where Varla's skin was a rich tan, Greta was a healthy pale. Varla looked the girl's body up and down: her breasts were large, but firm, and her stomach tapered before flaring out to prominent hips. She was not as thin as Varla, but her body possessed such sensual curves that Iliara could scarcely deny the quivering desire welling up between her thighs.

"Until you shave yourself, you will not lay with me. Would you like to lay with me?" Varla asked.

"Yes, mistress," Greta said without hesitation. "I'll shave it first thing in the morning for you."

"Good girl...but for tonight, I want my pleasure," Varla said, grinning wickedly. Then her grin vanished as she noticed a shadow that was out of place. "Who goes there!" she whispered loudly.

Iliara cursed to herself, but stood slowly, holding her hands out wide, dagger sheathed.

"Who are you," Varla said, coming forward imperiously. Iliara couldn't help the bounce and sway of Varla's perky, noble breasts as she approached.

"A shadow," Iliara said. In a flash of darkness, Iliara's hands snapped out, twisting Varla around and slapping her hand over the young woman's mouth to stifle her yelp, then jerked her along as she put her hand around quivering Greta's throat. She noticed, to her surprise, that neither of them struggled. "You like being roughed up a little?" Iliara whispered, watching Greta and feeling Varla's head nod slowly in her grasp. The elf released them both, feeling a strange kinship with them.

"I like a strong woman," Varla said in a throaty voice. She ran her hand over her mouth, then licked the taste of leather off her lips. "And Greta does what I say."

"I'm no woman," Iliara said, brushing her hair over her pointed ear to emphasize the point.

"All the better. I've heard elves taste like a ripe fruit," Varla said, grinning lasciviously. She spread her gown open, revealing her slender body to Iliara. "See anything you like?"

Iliara allowed herself a glance at the young woman's pert breasts and the scrumptious mound between her thighs, then looked back to Varla's eyes. "Girl, if it were any other time, I'd ravish you right here, but I've got a job to do." To emphasize the point, Iliara drew her knives.

"That's my father in there. Lord Armanov. Is he your job?" Varla asked, her voice mixed with venom.

"I take it you won't be stopping me?" Iliara asked.

"Why should I. He's a rapist and deviant. I lost my real dad when I was six years old. Something came over him, sending him into a spiral of deviant sex, drugs, and abuse. I was wondering when that Tormite would follow through on his word," Varla said.

"You know Dandril?" Iliara asked.

"He's been pining over me for years now. After I told him what my father was about, he pledged that he wouldn't rest until he was dead. Seems like the crusading type anyway; probably figured this was all the justification he needed. Surprised he sent an assassin, though, and not a paladin of some sort," Varla said.

"No bleeding heart paladin can do this kind of work as effectively as I can. It's a fine paying job, on top of the pleasure," Iliara said. "Tell you what, take your girl toy to the Dreaming Dragon, ask for Lura, tell her Iliara sent you. Trust me, you'll find all the pleasure you want out of her and more. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a job to do."

Varla nodded, taking Greta up in her wake to pack a small suitcase with clothing, and ran for the front door. Before they made it, they heard a woman scream, a man shout, and both end with terrifying suddenness. They stopped in their tracks, looking to each other, then ran out the door for the Dreaming Dragon, avoiding known patrol routes in the process.

*****

Lura was reclining in Mikhail's lap in the Dreaming Dragon common room, a post-orgasmic glow about her head, when the door to the tavern creaked open. It was early in the morning, before dawn still, and even though all the patrons had left and the tavern was closed, Benefast had neglected to lock the door when he and his half-sister retired.

Lura smiled when she saw the two young women hurry in. One, the tan-skinned girl, had an overstuffed sack over her shoulder, while the other, a delectably curvy, pale-skinned blonde had a relatively small bag with very little within. Lura read Mikhail's hungry gaze and smirked. "Lura?" one of them called tentatively. Curious, the drow slowly extricated herself from Mikhail's possessive grasp and emerged from the darkened corner.