Sune's Chosen Ch. 04

"Er..." Cyra said, looking at Lura, then to Ana, "keeping up on...foreign relations? It doesn't matter, fact of the matter is, I've never seen a woman get off the way we watched Lura do it last night. The Lady Firehair was with her, that's for certain. She wasn't even rubbing herself, and her pussy was gaped open like she had an invisible hand in her. Oh, did I mention the way the fire sprang to life and turned bloody crimson? Yeah, we don't need more proof than that."

Miria scowled deeply, and Lura felt the anger radiating from the elf paladin. The drow thought that Miria had always been devout in her passions, even if she was a little overbearing in her duties, but now, for the first time, she was beginning to question their leader. Was her heart truly pure for Sune? Was she truly devoted to her passions and the Goddess of Beauty?

"Miria, I would speak privately to you," Lura said softly, locking her gaze with the elf. She nodded curtly, and the two walked off into the woods a way, away from everyone else. They stopped at a small clearing, and Lura looked up at the sun. It no longer burnt her skin or singed her eyes, another blessing of Sune, she figured. Birds chirped merrily, and the wind had warmed as the sun rose, carrying a sweet scent of early autumn. On the breeze, she could sense moisture, and knew that rain was not far off. She turned to the beautiful elf and smiled.

"What?" Miria asked curtly.

"You are beautiful in the sunlight," Lura said, her Common accented harshly with drow inflections. She examined the elf before her. Miria wore a light green tunic for traveling that was sleeveless and fitted around her midsection. Her compact breasts were complimented by the slim design of the tunic, as the fabric hugged them and made the outline of her partially stiff nipples visible. Her breeches were tight on her lithe, muscular thighs. The low shoes she wore were perfectly fitted to her delicate, but strong feet, and her calves were gloriously visible, smooth and milky and toned to divine perfection. Lura realized she could lose herself for days idolizing the elven woman's body.

But the elf's face did not compliment the svelte beauty the rest of her body held. She was scowling, her long, curly black hair tied tightly behind her head. "Did you bring me over here to flatter me, or is there business?"

"What troubles you so, Miria?" Lura asked. She affected a plaintive look, because her sisterly bond to the elf demanded compassion, even if her drow nature couldn't care less if the paladin was angry or happy.

"Nothing troubles me, sister," she replied. "We should get going, though, I would like to see the walls of Everlund by nightfall."

"We aren't going anywhere until whatever troubles you has been resolved, Miria," Lura said sternly.

"You don't run this expedition," Miria shot back. "I am the ranking priestess here, surely a drow like you can appreciate that. Oh, but you're the Chosen of Sune now, aren't you? Well, maybe we should stay here. Maybe we should lounge all day long, flirting and drinking and fucking. Isn't that what you'd like, drow?"

An angered matron's fury welled up in Lura, but she mastered her emotions and said, evenly, "I would not presume to usurp your position, sister. We have trusted you always to lead us, and the Dancing Rose, to prosperity, and I will not change that now. You have always been a leader, devout in your passions, and never wavering in your resolve. I may be Sune's Chosen, but you are the leader. I have no heart for it, as you so deftly pointed out."

Mira sighed, looking down at her feet. Lura knew that she was feeling remorse for the way she had acted, but also could sense that something deeper was troubling her. Before she could say anything else, Miria reached up and put her pale hand on Lura's onyx-skinned face. "I am sorry, sister. Truly, you did not deserved to be spoken to in such a manner. I am happy that Sune has shown you such favor. Surely her realm rejoices in your ascension, as we all should. I love you, Lura, and I always shall."

The drow smiled, touched by Miria's sincerity.

"I have been burdened by the recent events in Silverymoon," she confessed. "It is hard to have everything you love and care for be stripped from you for false righteousness. You all trusted me, and I feel as if I have failed you."

Lura smiled sweetly, putting her hand on Miria's face likewise. "My sister, none of us blame you for this, and none of us feel betrayed by you. You have done what you could, and that is all that we could ever ask." Miria smiled back at the drow.

"Thank you," the elf said. She came forward slowly, her soft, pink lips pressing lightly against Lura's deep violet lips. The drow returned the kiss, pressing a bit more into Miria, and another vision struck her, holding her in place.

We saved you, you owe us, a familiar voice said.

Perhaps, but you're the one in need, aren't you pretty one? You'll service me, my uncle over there, and my wife if she wants it. Then you'll get your supplies. You Sunites like to fuck, so fuck for money, or supplies, whatever.

Sune does not permit prostitution.

Well, you're going to have to cheat a little, then aren't you? You're going to have to whore yourself to me and mine if you're wanting any of these supplies.

"Are you ok?" Miria asked for the third time, alarm in her eyes. Lura looked at her, realization taking hold.

"Yes," Lura said. "Sorry, I am still getting used to this Chosen of Sune thing. Lots of power going unchecked right now." It was the best lie she could offer. Miria took it.

"Maybe it just needs some release?" Miria suggested, a sly smirk on her face. Despite the troubling vision, Lura felt a knot of desire build in her loins, and suddenly her clothing, thin though it was, felt all too restraining. Miria came forward, kissing her hungrily.

With the hopes that feeling true passion and beauty would cure Miria of her self-inflicted despair and pull her away from the road of prostitution and degradation, Lura gave in, letting the elven paladin take her to the ground in a fiery embrace.

*****

"Mistress, the Sunites are in disarray." The voice was distant, quiet, airy as if spoken by the thick air itself. The truth of the matter was that the voice was indeed distant, though the measure of the distance went beyond mortal reckoning. Entire Planes separated the source of the voice and its destination.

"Good," was all She replied. Her voice was silky, if silk could be complimented by the threads of shadow that permeated the plane She inhabited.

"Mistress, if I may ask of you a question?" the voice came again. It was deep, thick with power, though the vast distances between the two diminished that effect.

"Ask, Nightseer."

"Why? What is the purpose of attacking this group of Sunites?"

"Every one has their Secret to hold," the woman's voice responded. "This is not for you to know, Nightseer. Be certain that your puppet follows through with the next portion of my plan. The Sunite that I am after should remain unharmed. She will prove to be useful to our gains."

"Of course, Mistress." The magical connection was gone. She felt it severed because she, Shar, had dominion over the Shadow Weave, the tapestry of magical energy that lay beneath the Weave Mystra controlled that gave power to normal wizards and mages. Her Shadow Weave had been an attack on the Goddess of Magic, and despite the fact that she still had not been able to usurp control over all magic, she was still quite smug about her creation. Now, her attention had been turned from Mystra, to Sune, the bitch that had taken her lovely toy Sharess.

Sharess, a lesser deity at the time who had been exploring the darker side of pleasure, had come to Shar to further that curiosity. Sune, the loving goddess that she is, swept in and "rescued" the fledgling deity from Shar during the Time of Troubles, when the gods and goddesses walked the earth as mortals. Shar certainly felt no attachment to the Dancing Lady, quite the contrary. Being the goddess of loss, the Mistress of the Night found more pleasure in losing the lovely goddess than the many times she had bound the wanton girl up and dominated her.

Her actions now, the attempt to steal Sune's Chosen, make the drow girl her own Chosen, was simply an act of revenge, boredom, and her own desire to inflict loss. Of course, she was aware of the recent changes in their little party. The elf, a Heartwarder, was slowly turning to prostitution, an abomination to Sune, and thus falling out of her faith. The human barbarian had left Sune's dominion to rejoin his Red Knight and his barbarian's ways. Lura, the drow bard, had been elevated to Chosen of Sune, given powers she could not yet understand. Now it was time to send her influence in to corrupt the drow's faith and turn her to the darkness. For that she needed her Nightseer, and his agent in Silverymoon.

Smiling, anticipating her victory and the inflicted loss, Shar leaned back in an obsidian throne. Wreathed in shadows, Lady Loss felt the cool tendrils of semi-sentient tendrils of darkness roam her body, caressing her curves. She felt Shadow cocoon her in its cold, comfortable embrace. What clothing she wore, made of pure shadow-stuff, vanished in the blanket of shadow, and she felt the cold wrapping press against her bared skin, stiffening her nipples and caressing her sex. Smiling, she lost herself in the pleasure of shadows.

*****

Abondel snarled as he threw his chair across his private quarters. His door opened soon after, a young man poking his head in to be certain nothing was amiss. Abondel was tall and naked, sweat glistening on his body in the light of the burning hearth. Wrapped in furs on the bed were two women, both sound asleep and thoroughly exhausted. Several implements hung from the head-board, and the young man knew they had seen plenty use. The women likely were suffering from angry red welts all along their backs and bottoms and thighs, the product of Abondel's purging.

He knew well, for he had been subject to that form of treatment as well. Abondel, leader of the Silverymoon Morality Movement, was cursed with an insidious disease, one that crept up on him at most inopportune times. He felt lust, and not in any normal sense. His lust was overpowering, so much to cripple him if he did not have his release, and his tastes had grown more violent as the perceived disease became more frequent. He had to dominate, control, and then find his release in doing so, lest his lust drive him insane. It was a condition he blamed wholly on Sune and her allies. Halani the elven goddess, Sharess, Lliira, and Sune were his enemies, and he has found himself allied to different churches with the ultimate goal of purifying Faerûn from these deities of lust.

Abondel's latest alliance had come from the Church of Shar, and though he knew not the person that contacted him at regular intervals, he had a feeling the man, if indeed he was a man, was very high up in her clergy. He had just visited, and at a time when Abondel's disease had been at its most powerful. The man had only just released himself with the two slave girls, and the cursed lust had flared again, leaving him rigid as an iron wand and flushed with need. Then the voice had come from the thick of darkness. The shadow portal was still up, waiting for him to pass through to meet his contact, the person that would affect the next phase of Shar's plan to weaken Sune herself.

It would stay open until he used it to cross several miles, into Everlund, and back, so when his aide, Sevastien, poked his head in, he had knew he wouldn't be forced to injure Shar's agent. With long strides, the tall commander went to his bed, took a long, studded whip from the headboard, and turned to look at the young man.

A moment of fear crossed Sevastien's eyes as he looked at Abondel, tall and imposing. Then excitement took hold of him, his member stirring as he looked upon Abondel's imposing member.

*****

"The gates of Everlund," Anliva said, her voice rough and whimsical at the same time. "The Lady blessing us, we'll be met with no resistance."

"We will pass unharmed," Lura said, a warm smile on her face. She no longer wore the flimsy garments that she was accustomed to. Lura had been gifted overnight by Sune with a traveling robe that conformed to her whims. It was red, matching the red streak in her hair, and hugged her voluptuous feminine curves. The robe's collar met between her breasts, and the magical garment pushed her breasts up and out, emphasizing her already alluring cleavage. The sides of the robe were split, but only because the drow bard wished it. The splits rose up just past mid-thigh, giving her a measure of protection while retaining a seductive quality. Her traveling shoes had been replaced by knee-high boots, buckled all the way up the calf, and with a thick, tall heel, and those boots were enchanted to resist dirt, grime, and other products of walking, but stayed comfortable and, more importantly for her sake, silent.

She kept her sword belted at her hip and her hair pulled back, leaving the one red lock of hair to hang down by her face. Anliva looked at her in awe, as the embodiment of her goddess, and Lura found her attentions a bit tiresome. Her drow sensibilities kept her from truly enjoying the dwarf's affections, though she did allow herself to smile at the stocky cleric.

"Everlund is a close ally with Silverymoon," Miria said. "What makes you think they'll accept us when the Gem of the North turned us out?"

"Because Sune is with us," Lura said matter-of-factly. To her chagrin, her lovemaking with the paladin had not eased the elf's pessimism and general air of anger. She now felt as if the elf was shutting her out more than before.

Miria tried to scoff to herself, but the expression was more public than she had intended. She could feel a cold glare from Cyra behind her, and a questioning stare from the big traitor barbarian, who had abandoned Sune for the Red Bitch.

"We ought to make camp," Mikhail said quietly. "The sun is setting quickly this night."

"We can make the gates shortly after nightfall by my guess," Cyra said. Her voice was a purr, tempered by the lazy drawl she affected when not trying to appear somewhat civilized. Her upbringing had been rough, and she had picked her speech up from hooligans and thugs, but only because her mother had been a promiscuous woman.

"But the Everlund gates close when the sun disappears," Mikhail explained, his voice growing bolder. "I am no stranger to this trade city, dear Cyra, trust me. If we wish to make a smooth, civilized entrance, we ought to wait until dawn."

"I agree," Lura said. "Cyra, lets go ahead and scout for a camping spot."

"Who put you in charge?" Miria asked, her voice stern and annoyed.

Lura gazed at the elf dumbfounded. "It is the logical course of action, Miria. Mikhail knows this place, I trust him."

"I'm sure," Miria said. "Fine, do as you wish, Chosen."

The elf walked on past the stunned drow, and Cyra sidled up next to the drow bard, putting her hand on the small of her back. "What crawled up her ass and died?"

"A sword spider, by the look of it," Lura said as she imagined a hatchling of said spider breed crawling up her legs, wickedly sharp legs slicing their way up, toward the nexus of her legs, venom dripping down......

The drow shook her head clear of the vision. Some things of her past life she just could not shake, it seemed. Miria was her sister, and though she had failed in assuaging her disgruntled demeanor, she had to have faith that Sune would heal her Heartwarder. "Come, Cyra. Let's be away from our paladin leader before things get too out of hand. I can sense her anger, and it could boil over any time...and I fear I will be the cause if we don't hurry."

"Right-o," Cyra said, patting the drow on the bottom as they trotted off ahead of the party.

*****

Night did indeed fall fast, as Mikhail had predicted, but thankfully for the Sunites, they had made a hasty, yet comfortable camp. Lura had been able to conjure some fine food, thanks to the new powers Sune had granted her, and they all ate well that night next to a blazing fire. Miria had abstained from eating, and generally kept herself separated from her companions, huddling beneath the thick branches of a tree in her bedroll, clutching her sword close to her breast.

Lura, with an exceptionally strong passion burning in her breast and loins, had taken Mikhail down near a freshwater spring that was nearby, and the enthusiastic follower of Sharess took the drow bard several times throughout the night. Their copious lovemaking had entertained Cyra and Shanara, who spent the night toying with eachother and speaking of lovers past. Hammer took the evening to relax with Anliva, in whom he confided his relationship with the Red Knight and many of the deeds in his past. Anliva, a lover of stories, mead, and meat like any good dwarf, ate and drank heartily, enjoying the tales Hammer spun.

Within the walls of Everlund, under the roof of the Smoking Dragon, a not so pleasant evening was unfolding for Shadowdancer Iliara. The gold elf sat panting, covered in sweat despite the thin white nightshirt she wore. In the upper floor, Iliara enjoyed many pleasures that her expansive purse bought her, from exotic pipeweeds to even more exotic men and women, masters of their art all. This night, though, she had experienced an unexpected visitor.

Sure, she had anticipated Abondel's visit, but not in the dark of night, and certainly not while copulating with two very skilled halfings on a dreamleaf binge. The encounter had left her sick to her stomach and the halflings catatonic with fear. But his message had been clear, and she was in no position to disobey Shar herself. The halflings had finally fallen asleep in her bed, both sporting unusually large erections in their sleep state, and she sighed. Another night of unfulfilled lust. Her lamentations were cast aside, though, as business took hold of her thoughts. She rose, shedding the soaked nightshirt so that her bronze, sweaty skin could cool and dry in the cold, stagnant air of her dark apartment.

She walked over to an armoire, opened it and pushed aside several garments to find what she was looking for. A small black box gleamed in the lightless apartment, and she felt a thrill course through her as her dexterous fingers slid over the smooth surfaces. She opened it and the powerful, pungent aroma of a blackstalk mushroom assaulted her senses. Iliara had forced herself to grow accustomed to the scent and had even conditioned her body to become resistant to the potentially fatal chemicals in the fungus.

The Shadowdancer had heard of secret sects of Shar that used the blackstalk during ceremony, either by burning it and inhaling the toxic, hallucinogenic vapors, simply chewing the stalks to induce visions that would either tell them what Shar wished, or crushing the fine spores into a powder and consuming it for a similar effect. The side effects, should Shar not favor the consumer, were often fatal. Unless, of course, you were drow, who live around the poisonous fungi and consume it as food. Iliara envied their natural resistance to magic and poison as she ran a fingernail along the stem, peeling off an ultra-fine fiber and setting the thin strip on her tongue.

It burned, almost painfully, almost pleasantly, but never quite one or the other. She closed her eyes and clenched her teeth as she felt her muscles clench all together. Then, the pain subsided and she was left with a surreal vision of the darkness around her. Humanoid shapes stalked through the shadows of her apartment, red eyes like burning embers staring dangerously at her. She bit her lip, feeling cold shadowstuff caressing her skin, seeking her sensitive spots to stimulate them. She looked up and saw not a roof, but a black moon wreathed in purple fire, a symbol of Shar.