Scoundrel's Answer Ch. 11

"Yeah, I'm good."

Garthur nodded, then looked across to Alan, and helped him to his feet. Only then did he address the others, "Alright, here's the plan. I'll take point, Windhawk, you're with me. Daphne, you watch our rear. The rest between will be Vick, Faringalia, then Alan."

Daphne and Faringalia both raised their brows, but Vick quickly caught their expressions. "We're underground, the dwarf's got better sense down here, by old tradition he takes point beneath the earth, Windhawk above. Alan when we sneak around, and me when it's time to smash some heads."

"When do I get to lead?" Faringalia chimed up.

"When you've been with us for a few decades," Alan's response was swift, which brought a pout from the gnome woman.

"Hey, Alan boy, do you think some of our old caches are still around down here?" Garthur stroked a hand over his beard as he gazed down a few of the nearest corridors, scouting out a bit with a heavy tread while the rest assembled.

"I don't know, maybe? I hid them pretty well, but it's been a long time."

"We'll swing by a few, see if we can't pick up any healing potions that might be good, and some armor for the fat man."

"HEY!"

"You're useless without it, Vick. At least useless for anything better than getting carved up by the first blade you run into. I seem to remember a few enchanted suits that we stowed down here 'just in case'."

After some brief discussion, it was decided that the detours wouldn't take them that long, and so they got underway. There was no attempt at stealth, between the mail clad dwarf's steady steps and the torches the two humans required to see through the pitch dark tunnels. Progress was, fortunately, a little faster than hacking through the underbrush above would have been. They'd been down those tunnels so many times in the past, and while it had been decades since they had been down those ways, Garthur, at least, still remembered the basic layout.

The tunnels themselves were largely quiet as the party proceeded, but there were signs that this was but a fluke, a recent occurrence. Dried blood smeared along the old stone walls in places, and in others, discarded torches rested. More than one hall they passed resounded with the buzzing of flies, and the stench of decay. It was likely a lesser group of adventurers had been through those tunnels in recent days, something confirmed when the group passed a room in which a few dead goblins could be seen through the open door, their little bodies ravaged by sword wounds, and the marks of scavengers' feeding.

Monsters and humanoids of various sorts were constantly seeking shelter within the labyrinthine tunnels under Pinroot, making their lairs in the forgotten rooms, and preying upon each other in some weird and twisted reflection of the wildlife above. Some chambers and passages had been re-purposed so many times that their original purpose was lost to time, and some precious few still stood pristine, forever suspended from the decay of time by the magics that suffused them. In some corridors, traps both old and new silently awaited their next victim, and down others, the occasional shuffling footsteps of something still motive drifted toward the group.

The original members of the Reavers knew, for the most part, where the most dangerous chambers were. There were places where the original magics kept their eternal vigil over treasures that still remained, making progress too costly, too risky to claim them. Other areas were simply twisted ruins, where the very layout of the remaining structures themselves posed a hazard, either by instability or by lending themselves to monstrous fortifications. Garthur skirted such hot spots. They were passing through, not seeking to clear the dungeon out as they had in years passed.

The first few caches had long been raided, with stones or hangings removed and whatever the Reavers had stashed within long taken. Hours wore on as they wound through the passages, and signs of recent activity fell away. Far from either of the main exits to the surface that lay along the path they were following, the tunnels the Reavers trod through now were still inhabited by creatures in the darkness. None threatened them directly, but past the edge of the faintest shadows of their torchlight, eyes glimmered from pitch black surroundings, the occasional sight of some great bulk shifting out of the way could be discerned, and the odd and distant crying of some great beast echoed off of the cold stone walls.

It was the subtler sounds that put the experienced members of the group on edge, however. The shifting of fabric that was not theirs, the pad of bare feet on the floor, or the sound of soft breathing, struggling to be silent. These were all indications that something in the dark was much, much closer. The scents were just as bad. The foulness of the earlier unknown, unseen carrion was better than that of wet dog, just barely at the edge of sensation, or the stench of brimstone, there one moment and then gone.

More than once, Garthur lead them in a detour to avoid some danger his dwarven senses had perceived, or some creature that Windhawk had alerted them to in that soft, whispered tone of hers. The next cache Alan recalled appeared intact at first glance, but upon removing the ancient, loose stone from the wall which hid the cavity they had hidden things in, it was clear someone else had been there. Still, whoever had preceded them had left a few items they might find use for. A few potions which Garthur quickly confirmed were capable of mending wounds, and a well balanced, obviously enchanted dagger, which Alan tucked into his belt.

The group had been going for most of the day, between the trek through the forest prior to the Hags, and then the flight and subsequent hike through the tunnels of Pinroot. They had left much of their supplies with their horses, which they'd never had a chance to recover while running for their lives. Still, at some point, Garthur called for an hour's rest. They'd gone through three torches at that point, three hours of slogging through the tunnels. It was just fortunate that they'd not come across anything that dared challenge such a well armed group.

Since most of the party could see in the dark, they agreed to let the torch burn out and rest without light. If it became an issue, Garthur assured them that he could brighten the place long enough to deal with any hostiles that approached while they rested. Entering a side room off the main corridor which still had a working door in its frame, they each settled into chosen spots, getting comfortable. Garthur fetched up just to one side of the door and put his heavy pack against it, while Windhawk knelt down across from it, her bow across her knees. Alan chose a corner nearer to the door than naught, so he might slip behind anything that made it through. The others merely seemed content to stay out of the way.

He certainly didn't intend to fall asleep, but no sooner did Alan Tinsley's frame settle down against that cold stone than his eyes grew heavy. It certainly wasn't the most comfortable place to doze off, but the day, the last few days, had been wearying. He was still fairly fit, but the days of spending days or weeks in the field chasing after enemies were long since passed. Even if 'in the field' happened to be city streets or dungeon corridors.

For once, Alan was aware he was dreaming. Night time fog, lit to a wispy white glow by scattered moonlight above restricted vision in all directions. About his feet, tall grass crisped with frost swished and crackled under each step. Through the mists, the soft tones of a lute drifted, and then a sound that made his heart leap. A woman's giggling laughter rung out, high and free. It was a laugh he knew well.

"Lizzy!" He called forth, but his only response was another peal of laughter. He began to charge forward, through the all consuming fog.

"Mmm, my lord," her words were almost a moan as they drifted through the night, "Stop teasing me, please."

The music faded with a lone, sustained note. The man's voice was definitely familiar. The Stranger who had ambushed them on the way to the Reavers' Rest. "If you insist, Lady Tinsley. Whatever do you want me to do?" Although his tone grew softer, Alan's swift pace kept that ghostly tone within hearing.

"Fill me again, my lord," Elizabeth purred out words that he'd heard her say to him so many times, "I want to feel your body against mine, I want you inside of me."

The fog gave way ahead, beneath the shade of a broad branched tree. A campfire was there, burned so low that it was as a candle's flame dancing lazily back and forth over embers. It had apparently done much to draw the chill obscurement of the mists away. It was but a small area cleared by tree and flame before the fog grew thick again, and silhouetted in that far bank of mist was a strange rock, crudely resembling a massive bird perched on a pillar, with wings outstretched.

It was the events beneath the tree, however, which caught Alan's attention. About one low branch, a cord of white lace torn from some greater fabric was tied, the sort that Elizabeth loved to wear. It descended, taut, to coil around and around about her slender wrists, although long nailed hands grasped the lace cord for support. He was under the impression that she might tear it easily if she so desired.

Her arms were bared, as were her shoulders. His wife's beautiful, long blonde hair was mussed, falling in a tangled halo decorated with small twigs and leaves throughout. Her smooth, normally pale skin was ruddy with exertion, soft lips now bereft of that berried stain were parted, swollen as if from many kisses, and the tip of her pink tongue traced teasingly over that flesh. Her jewel-green were eyes fixed upon the man before her, and there was something so filthy, so dirty about her gaze.

Her full breasts were bared, heaving with heavy pants, and were covered with little marks where lips and teeth had tormented that full, firm flesh. Her nipples were peaked, jutting forth, and a little flash of gold stud glinted where a new piercing graced the right one. A white corset hung loose about her torso, the laces undone, but it was still enough to conceal her midriff, supporting those breasts only slightly from beneath, while resting low on full hips.

Her hips were bare, she did not appear to be wearing anything else but stockings, but Alan couldn't immediately see. One supple, shapely leg was lifted, her delicate foot resting on the shoulder of the man before her. Those stockings were the same ivory silk that she had been wearing before, but now were riddled with holes, exposing pale flesh beneath. Her entire weight was supported by the lone leg that descended, planted firmly upon the soft earth amidst the roots of the trees. From what he could see, those thighs glistened with moisture.

The man before her was definitely the one who'd ambushed them. Alan recognized the instrument in his hands, though the cloak and tunic were gone. A half elf, with dark hair and piercing eyes that were currently fixed upon Alan's wife, he stood tall and strong. His skin was well tanned, his chest broad. Several unreadable runes were tattooed into his flesh, in a dark ink. Druid glyphs, Alan had seen them before, but didn't know how to read them. The man wore only a pair of leather breeches, and even those were undone, hanging loose about his hips.

The Stranger tossed his lute aside, and lifted one hand to caress along Lizzy's leg, from where that foot rested at his shoulder, down along that silken contour. When he spoke, there was something about his voice, a command that was wholly unnatural, "You are an insatiable slut, aren't you, Lady Tinsley?" He turned his head to brush his lips about her ankle, before that hand drifted along her thigh. He grasped the top of her stocking in an easy movement, and began to peel it down that extended limb.

"Lizzy!" Alan shouted again, although neither seemed to acknowledge him.

Indeed, the only thing Elizabeth did was nod, and moan out a soft, "Yes. A slut. Your slut. Fuck me again my lord, I beg you." Her tone was needful, longing, and she arched her back to further present her full breasts.

Alan cursed, then charged the man. The tattooed bard ignored Alan as he tossed that stocking aside, then began to stroke his strong hand over bared skin. Alan braced his shoulder, intending to impact the Stranger as hard as he could.

The two men passed right through each other. Alan stumbled as he found himself still charging, as if nothing were there. With a grunt, he landed in the grass on the opposite side of the tree, then cast his gaze back over his shoulder.

The Stranger just stepped in toward Elizabeth, and slid his hand up to grip her ass. His other hand came to her hip, and he lifted her, supporting her weight easily, as that thin lace bond clearly couldn't. As Lizzy lifted her legs to wrap about him, the bard's thick, erect cock pressed easily into her slick, wanton body. He continued forward, until her back met the tree trunk, and he glided up into her with a solid, hilting thrust.

Alan stared in shock as his wife not only accepted the man, but cried out a soft, hissing, "Yesss." She then dipped her head to catch the Stranger's lips with her own. It was a deep, wanting kiss. A kiss she initiated. She arched her back, crushing her full breasts to the Stranger's broad chest.

The vision had Alan rocketing to his feet again, but there was a sudden grip at his shoulder. It felt as if a skeletal, icy claw were gripping at his flesh, but when he looked, all he saw was the slender, long nailed digits of a woman's hand. The grasp at his shoulder eased as Miena's voice drifted in soft notes against his ear.

"Watch, Alan. Watch, and see what a whore your lovely wife can be."

He turned his gaze slowly back to the scene before him. A shudder of revulsion coursed along his spine as the bard's lips left his wife's, only to capture one pert nipple. The other, with its gleaming gold piercing, just bobbed back and forth with the rhythm of his thrusts within her. Those slender legs crossed ankles behind the man's back, and her thighs tensed as she pulled him into each movement. Her rear flexed under his hands as she cast her head back, exposing that slender neck.

"Oh yes, yes! Fuck me my lord, fill me as no one ever has!" Her sharp, loud cries stung Alan's soul as much as his ears.

He could feel soft breasts press against his own back, then more, as the red headed wizard arched against him. Her hand left his shoulder, and wrapped about his waist instead. Her lips brushed gently against his earlobe, as she whispered, "See, Alan? See what a slut she can be? She wants him so."

The thief refused to believe it, even as the scene unfolded before him. His beautiful young bride, writhing against another, bouncing herself willingly upon another man's member. Her expression was one of rapture, her eyes screwed shut, her mouth open. Her toes wriggled as she forced herself hard against him.

"She has to be under some sort of enchantment."

"Oh she is, but not the sort you think." The magic user dragged her nails along Alan's abdomen, then nipped at his earlobe. "Mmm, Alan, I miss you so much." She breathed against his neck.

"Miena! What have you done to her?" It was clear, glaringly clear who was behind his troubles now. But he still didn't know how. She was dead, after all, her tower destroyed, her ashes scattered.

"Me? Well," the redhead toyed her nails down to the waist of his leggings, only to find her wrists arrested by his grasp. A soft laugh escaped as her wrists were gripped within his hands. Her breath was icy against his neck. "I gave the bard a little something to help her forget."

"Forget? Forget what?" His tone was terse.

Lizzy screamed as she came, her body tensing upon the Stranger's. "Oh yes! My lord! Claim me!" Her words were scattered between gasping breaths, and from the look of it, the man tensed up as well, likely emptying himself into Alan's wife. Still he moved though, grinding against her, holding her body against his. The two then met in a kiss that seemed as loving as any she and Alan had ever shared.

"You? Her past? Everything. Without you in her memories, without worry over her family name, or what other nobles think, she is free to be as she really is. It didn't take long for him to get to her after that."

A chill ran down Alan's spine, and he tore his eyes away from the lewd scene before him. His eyes fixed upon the red headed woman's. "Why? Miena... why have you done this to her?"

The mage's full lips turned into a cruel smile. "Because, Alan. You should be mine. You remember what you taught me, all those years ago? When you see something you want..."

"You take it," Alan finished lamely. "But you're dead, Miena."

"Since when have I ever let anything like that stop me?" Her words were teasing, and she leaned up against him again. She used his own grasp on her wrists as leverage, to move to her tiptoes in an attempt to kiss him.

He recoiled from that kiss, backing up a step, then another. There was a hint of rage in her eyes at being denied, and she began to whisper arcane words. Things he couldn't comprehend, only that they were the start of a spell.

"Alan!"

He startled awake, and as his eyes snapped open, he recognized the concerned look in Daphne's gaze. She stood over him, hands on his shoulders, her form outlined in the dim light of a freshly lit torch.

"You must have been having a nightmare," Her voice softened, and she leaned to kiss his forehead gently. "Come on old man, it's time to go." Those words were punctuated by a smile.

Alan nodded, "Oh. Right. And yes, I think it's high time to be on our way." He stood with her assistance, and stretched. The others had already gathered up their things. It was time to continue through the ruined tunnels.

He just hoped his dreams had been a false product of the darkness of Pinroot.