Sex and the Spellplague Ch. 07

A crash shook her from her ruminations. The ruddy skinned woman moved toward it with practiced stealth, She could have conjured a flame on her brow, effectively a torchlight to show her footing, but decided against it. She could see well enough in the dark, and didn't want to give her appearance away to whoever may be lurking about.

There was a curse, a wet smack, and more tinkling glass. Something potent assaulted her senses, and Cyra felt her throat rumble as a sibilant growl emerged. The scent was provoking some inborn reaction. Lips curling down in a snarl, the horned woman strode more purposefully, and as she rounded a corner, something she did not expect to see appeared before her.

And rage enveloped her wholly. Splayed out on a table, an unconscious, drooling, and incised dragonling lay, a fat, apron-wearing man shuffling about with vials filled with viscous liquid.

The scales of the dragon were dull and red, and the beast's chest rose and fell in shallow breaths. She could almost sense the dragon's consciousness become aware of her, and either it recognized her as one of its own come to rescue it, or it simply could not react. Regardless, the butcher could not react quickly enough as Cyra lurched forward, her lean, supple body propelling her through the air with preternatural alacrity. Fingernails shifted into claws and tore open three jagged rents in the fat man's torso. She was atop him, bearing him to the floor with a solid thud, glaring down at him.

Fire danced along her brow, her horns gleaming with draconic magnificence as the swept back along her skull. Platinum hair wreathed her face like white-hot fire around a black coal.

"What are you doing," she hissed, her voice as much growl as whisper.

"Lord Armanov—"

"Speak not his name!" she rasped, backhanding him. Blood trickled from his face. "Answer me, now."

"I-I-I am j-just withdrawing the beast's pheromones to make lustvenom!" he said as quickly as his stuttering voice would allow. Cyra's eyes narrowed, and she sniffed. There were herbs, yes, but she detected no—yes! There they were, the dragonling's scent riding the pungent crushed herbs. How could she have missed it before? Her draconic senses were awakening, and arousal swept over her all at once as she considered the magnificent creature this little one would become.

This little one, without a broodmother, without a sire to raise it...

Maternal instincts she never knew she harbored crushed any arousal or sorrow she might have been feeling for the little one. She turned her gaze over the alchemist again, golden eyes burning with rage. Her hands gripped his skull, fingernails digging into the bone beneath his scalp, and began to pull apart.

His face split apart, and she vomited fire into his opened cranium.

***

Miria was lost in Lura's presence. The Chosen of Sune was riding her as if they had been lovers for centuries, knowing her every curve and pleasure nexus, touching each one with skilled grace, as if the Goddess herself was mounting her. The thought brought a twinge of jealousy into her mind, though not as strongly as she had felt in the past. Sune had chosen Lura, not herself, and Miria was starting to accept that.

Lura's lips met her own, searing whatever jealousy remained away in a torrent of hot, steaming love. Sune had chosen rightly, Miria decided, and wrapped her arms around the drow's neck, holding her tight in the kiss as climax took them both.

Shivering and shuddering as their final orgasms crept away, Miria was content to simply lay there and bask in Lura's warmth, Sune's presence.

But golden light flared around Lura, and the drow smiled down at the elf. There was a bit of sorrow in her eyes, but more than a little love and acceptance. The golden light was searing hot, pulling sweat from their pores instantly, and radiated divine majesty.

Of a sudden, the light fled Lura and rushed into Miria, suffusing her every pore, beaming out of her eyes, mouth, and throat. Her heart blossomed with light, gleaming even through muscle, bone, and flesh. Divinity flowed into Miria like cold water from afresh winter spring. It cooled her body, exhilarated her, set her skin aflame, and then, without warning, it vanished.

She realized that Lura was on her side, beside Miria, panting and weeping softly. Resting an alabaster hand on the drow's black shoulder, she pulled her sister toward her, wrapping her arms around the more voluptuous elf. Pressing herself against Lura's back, Miria whispered in Elven soothing words. Her lips brushed the sensitive point of Lura's elegant ear.

The drow twisted in her embrace, turning to face Miria.

"What Sune gave to me wholly, I now share with you," she said in High Drow, and Miria was surprised that she understood it this time. The harsh consonants mixed with her elegant, melodious voice, were counter to each other, yet came together in a music she couldn't help but smile at. Then the levity of what Lura confessed struck her. "Her divinity, or a shard of it, I share with you now. Welcome back, my dear Sister."

"Wh-why?" Miria asked, eyes welling up of a sudden.

"She commanded it, of course. Her reasons are her own. She always favored you, Miria, it just took this long for you to see it. For a drow, a goddess's favor is easy to discern. We've dealt with Lolth's fickle favors for so long that the favors of one such as Sune are easy to read."

Miria pulled the drow tight, relishing in the woman's fuller figure and her sensual warmth. "I suppose you're right. I'm just...surprised."

"The gods are an interesting lot," Lura said. Miria noticed for the first time that the gold was missing in her eyes. They shone like twinkling garnets, lit from behind by some unknown source. She kissed the elf then, her dark lips splashing against Miria's pinkish lips. The elf's black hair fell over her cheek, rustled by a breeze blowing into Lura's apartment. The drow ran her long, dexterous finger over the fibers, and Miria could smell her sex on them.

"Our friends are downstairs," she murmured, nuzzling her lips and face into Lura's lean neck, nipping at her throat.

"We should attend them," Lura said, giggling and blushing a little. She'd entirely forgotten about the dinner party in the midst of her goddess's rapturous voice commanding her to share her shard of divinity.

The two elves pried themselves away from each other, Lura casting a minor magic she'd learned young in Menzoberranzan to cleanse them, at least superficially, and both clothed themselves as they had been beforehand. When they returned to the dining room, only Lidia Lovedrake remained, naked and munching on bits of meat. Her wings were speckled with random bits of food, her hair a mess, and her body gleaming in a sheen of sweat, liquor, and liquids they couldn't quite discern.

"Well, glad to see my pet had fun tonight too," Lidia said, reclining and crossing her thighs in a mannish manner. Her sex was gleaming within its folds. "There's something you two should know about the 'tiefling' in your company."

*****

Calafein led his fellows through the shadows of Everlund without a sound. The black-sheathed warriors moved like living wraiths, sometimes melding perfectly with shadow, sometimes using moonlight to travel several yards all at once. The Dark Maiden herself may not live anymore, but her gifts to her faithful still persist, and Calafein used them to his advantage as they followed the red-skinned woman from the Dreaming Dragon to the large manor on the other side of the city.

His brothers and sisters were throughout Everlund, watching its seedy underbelly for signs of corruption that Lura had detailed. He had no doubt they would weed out whatever was corrupting Everlund from the inside, and dispose of it quickly. The drow were deadly efficiency incarnate.

Watching the horned woman melt glass, he knew he was dealing with something more than human, likely more than tiefling the way fire seemed to respond to her every touch. But Calafein didn't get this far in life by making assumptions. Hands working in the intricate drow sign language, he turned to his lieutenant.

Report to Celise, he said with his hands. Tell her I am following the red-skinned woman into this manor.

The drow nodded, saluted, and led the handful of warriors back to the Dreaming Dragon, where Celise awaited in a veil of illusion behind the tavern. Calafein crept forward stealthily, hands near his hilts as he slid through the melted window. He noticed the bits of skin and fabric on the edges and shook his head as he moved through without a scratch. Amatures.

The snarl and crashing glass had him immediately alert. He drew his swords, both blades of blackened adamantite with swept hilts, perfectly balanced and edged for brutal effectiveness. He slid around the corner soundlessly, and peered into the room just in time to see a fat man's face tear apart, skull to throat, and searing orange flame melt the meat into burnt gore.

The drow noticed the young dragon hatchling on the table, pinned and sliced, but still alive, and felt anger himself at the cruelty. Even though it was a dragon that would one day grow into a violent, evil beast bent on destruction or manipulation of mortals, such treatment was unwholesome to his sensibilities, though he'd certainly seen worse in the Underdark.

"Be silent, lest your enemies hear you," he whispered harshly. The woman turned her head, neck twisting in an almost serpentine fashion, and her tail flicked to the side. She turned to face him, snarling, fire wreathing her forehead and gleaming black horns. Teeth sharpened before his eyes, and golden eyes flared to life. Assuming she was lost in a rage, he brought his blades up defensively and fell into a crouch. The close quarters favored her unarmed attacks, he figured, but he had centuries of training in Underdark caverns.

So she came on, hissing and baring claws at the ends of her fingers. She lashed at him with her hands, attempting to rend his armor, but he was too fast and too agile for that. "Lura would hate for me to kill you, I think," he said, preparing to lash at her with steel.

But she stopped suddenly. "Lura?" she asked. "How do you know her?"

"She brought us here."

Confusion knit the woman's brow, then she smirked. "Ah, yes, her drow army," she said, the fire dissipating and her claws retracting into black-lacquered fingernails. "I am Cyra, Lura's comrade. Come, drow. It seems my lover has found himself a bit of trouble in his own manor. I imagine he is in quite a predicament."

Calafein stared hard at her. "I am Calafein. The master of this house is not unaware of the goings on, Lady Cyra. Look around. If your lover has his hand in this madness, then it is feasible that he is the root of the evil corrupting Everlund and poisoning its people."

The horned woman scowled dangerously. "Ware your words, drow. Samon would do nothing of the sort. Help me."

She turned away from Calafein, who's face was contorted in disbelief. Naïve fool, he thought to himself as the woman went to the unconscious whelp. She hefted it and spoke sibilant, cooing words in its ear as she held it close, its muzzle against her shoulder.

"What are you?" he asked.

"Apparently," she hissed, "the daughter of a red dragon. Though I've always thought I was a tiefling. It took another half-dragon to detect my heritage. I—"

She stopped mid-sentence as Calafein put a hand on her shoulder. Blue lines coursed through his flesh, his spellscar activating as he thrust his awareness into her very genetics. He pulled away, gasping, coughing. "You are spellscarred," he said. "Dragons are inherently magical creatures, ancient and powerful. The Spellplague suppressed your draconic heritage. Your scales do not show, your wings will not sprout. Only horns and a tail mark you as something other than human, and your skin is red simply because you have no scales. Perhaps your scar is weakening, allowing more of your heritage to blossom, but I doubt it will do anymore than it has already. Breath of fire, draconic senses, affinity to flames...but no scales, and nothing more than temporary transformation in any other regard."

"The whelp senses my heritage, though," she said, holding the beast against her as Calafein revealed her curse and her heritage further.

"Aye, your heritage can never be suppressed. Only its physical attributes. The Spellplague drove dragons into madness, but it seems their half-breed spawn were affected differently."

"But Lidia—"

"Was likely conceived and born after the Spellplague."

The finality in his voice drove home the sad truth. Her elation at discovering her true heritage, her father Vulcanastus and the inherent gifts she possessed, was tempered by the realization that she could never display her heritage openly. But Cyra was ever a pragmatic woman. That emotion was crushed as she looked around the alchemical laboratory.

"Have you a healing draught?" she asked, pointing at the drow's belt and the pouch hanging from it. He pulled it out and handed it to her. She poured the silvery liquid into the whelp's muzzle, and it began to stir in her arms. Puffs of flame and smoke gusted from its maw and it writhed in her arms. She released it and it plopped to the ground, feet first, and began to sniff around, sniffing up her leg, then glancing at the drow inquisitively. "Come," she said to the whelp, "we have revenge to exact on your treatment."

Her voice was cold and even, fingernails extending into claws again, and the dragonling rasped in excitement as she and Calafein moved through the manor, moving into the lower passages that Cyra knew existed but never visited.

*****

Korina had cinched her waist tight and strapped her tall boots on many hours ago. But when the silent alarms began assaulting her awareness, she'd been glad for it. Samon was with her, strapping on a leather hauberk and belting a rapier to his hip. His cock was still swollen in his pants, thanks to her ministrations and the lustvenom.

The brew was waning quickly, though, as his anger overwhelmed his lusts. Pushing past the cleric, he brandished his rapier and shouted orders to the shadowy rogues in his employ. He was surprised at how few of them there were.

"Where are the rest of you," he snapped. A bald man stepped forward, his head sweaty.

"Drow," he gasped, short of breath. "We've been rushing back as quick as we can. They're offing us one by one, group by group! They're invading the damned city!"

Samon cursed. "Lura," he snarled. He stormed through the expansive basement and to the stairs up, where he met an entirely unexpected sight. "Cyra!"

"Bastard," she rasped, tears flowing in steaming rivulets down her cheeks. She lunged down the stairs, a drow swordsman and a dragon whelp lurching after her. Without questioning his lover—former lover—he snapped orders at his men, falling back to where Korina stood, her whip out and an eager grin on her face.

Then Cyra breathed fire, incinerating half his men in one fell moment.

The drow swooped in behind the wake of smoldering corpses, finishing off the rest with quick, sure strikes of his blades.

*****

"You shouldn't be so surprised," Calafein snapped at the man before him. "The drow are an efficient killing machine, much greater than this rabble." He spat on a smoking corpse. "I confess, you've made quite the work out of this town, but we've come to relieve you of your burden. My Mistress will be pleased at the underworld you've created. The drow will flourish here."

Samon sputtered, and the woman next to him snarled. "You lie. There are no drow in this area and never have been!"

"Your life is a vapor to me," the drow said, sounding bored with the woman. "A human's years are insignificant. The drow have operated in this area for centuries, beneath your notice. It is a wonder you have survived this long. Now I give you an option. Leave, or die."

Samon, having apparently mustered his testicular fortitude, proclaimed, "You are but one drow and one tiefling. I have Korina and the goddess Loviatar with me."

Cyra snarled, fire leaping across her brow, between her breasts, along her arms and between her horns in a flaming crown. "I am no mere tiefling, human insect," she snarled. "I have the blood of dragons in my veins."

Samon made a rude sound in dismissal at such a proclamation, then Cyra roared an ear-splitting sound that didn't bother the drow at all. He merely smirked, and even laughed as the dragonling gave a higher pitched mimicry of a roar in response.

But then, to their surprise, the little dragon hatchling pounced on Samon, fire spewing from its snout to melt half his face, talons shredding his fine clothes and flesh, and biting down on his throat. Samon screamed, trying to bash the beast with his rapier, but his throat was torn apart in short order. Korina screamed and charged, but Cyra, her wrath demanding she witness Samon the Betrayer's demise, didn't even budge. Blind by fury, the priestess lashed her whip repeatedly.

But Calafein had fought priestesses more skilled with a fanged whip than this bitch of a woman. He sliced his blades through the leather whip with ease, stalking forward until his twin swords impaled the woman, through each breast. He admired the symmetry and skill of his handiwork, smirking as she slid off his steel, her breasts wobbling and spurting blood.

He turned to Cyra, and the blood-soaked whelp returned to its surrogate mother. She knelt, and the beast crawled up her strong arm to perch across her shoulders, resting its head atop hers, gnawing on her horns painlessly. She smiled, stroked its tail as it curled down between her breasts, and nodded to Calafein. The drow turned to leave, but Cyra wasn't quite ready.

She took him by the arm, her grip like a vice, and pulled him into a deep, incredibly warm kiss, her tongue nearly burning the tastebuds off his tongue. The whelp snarled a little, then hopped off, flapping wings to arrest its descent. It busied itself with eating the priestess Korina while Cyra wrapped her thighs around Calafein's powerful hips, bearing him down to the ground as the drow surrendered to her.

*****

"Where in the Nine Hells is Cyra," Mikhail snapped. By the time he'd returned, Lidia and Lura were trading stories, Miria was laughing along and looking far more regal and powerful than ever before, and Hammer sat beside the drow, with Varla and Alluva. Ambrusia milled about, nibbling and regretting all the fun she'd missed.

"She is with Calafein," said a new voice. Another drow, flanked by males and females of her race, entered the tavern from the rear. They were garbed in silvery robes or silver-trimmed armor each, and all wore a scimitar or likewise curved blade at their hips, sometimes in pairs, sometimes in the form of daggers. The speaker had the youthful complexion and softness that all mortals seemed to posess, and Mikhail realized she was likely even younger than he was. "My soldiers have reported as much, and my mental link with my Champion has told me as—ahh, oh yes. They are going to be a while yet."

She seemed to blush a little, her skin a very deep shade of gray rather than absolute black tinting at the cheeks. Lura snickered a little to herself. "If I know Cyra, I imagine they will be."

Celise smiled, and Lura stood. "My friends, this is Celise, former High Priestess of Eilistraee. Her company has agreed to help us rid Everlund of the corruption beneath it before it grew out of hand." Her eyes went to Varla, then to Hammer. The young woman smiled meekly, and Hammer nodded gravely. Both understood the need, and while Hammer's enthusiasm didn't surprise her, she figured Varla was more concerned with her hand in all this. After all, if it weren't for her, they would never have discovered it—at least, not quite as soon.