The Feud Ch. 01

Author's notes: This will be a more plot-focused erotica. If you're looking for straight-to-the-point sex, this isn't it. At least not in this Chapter. Expect at least one more to come, and a final one after that if enough people enjoy it.

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"And with the last light of day, she was gone," the man murmured, "and within me, the night was born."

Victor set down his quill and held up the parchment to the soft candlelight. The Hero's Welcome was not the most orthodox place to work on an autobiography, but since the Scourge threat had been neutralized, it was certainly quieter one. He stretched his legs rested them in a half-cross over the painted stone tiles underfoot. Basking in the warm candlelight and the gentle music, he held up his glass of Dalaran Red to his nose, reflected upon his long journey to glory and power, and finished it. At last, his story would be told—the first chapter of his autobiography was complete, and it was off to a fantastic start. He tucked his ink and quill away and placed the parchment with the rest, placing his hand gently upon it in piqued satisfaction.

The piece would speak of his years as a mage, his dissatisfaction with the 'mundane arcane', as he had lovingly dubbed it, it spoke of his love and loss—

"Their loss," Victor said aloud to himself. He would not allow the thoughts of old flames to sour this moment. Writing his memoirs brought him joy that he could only experience if he had lived his life twice over... and still, the best was yet to be recorded! His rise as a warlock, his breakthrough studies in demonic magic, his close encounters with death, and his ascension from a petty wizard to a fearsome gladiator! No, he would not allow a woman or two or five spoil his innumerable triumphs; and yet one walked in that had certainly trumped them.

Thelise Dor'elna was as well known and respected amongst her kind as Victor was among humanity; though where she was revered for her grace, purity, and determination, he was feared for his cruelty, methods, and ambition. It was an uncommon site to see a priest and a warlock share a gaze for as long as they did, and far rarer one for one to join the table with the other. Victor all but gawked as the high elf priestess emerged from the light of the doorway. Her face was full, healthy, and spoke of her eternal youth. Her cream complexion almost seemed to emit a soft glow, but it was nothing compared to her naturally luminescent blue eyes. Good looks were relatively common amongst her people, but that did not keep Victor from his thoughts: how wonderful it would be to part her lips with his own, and to penetrate them with—

Thelise cleared her throat as she stood behind a chair.

"May I take this seat?"

Victor gave her a simple incline of the head in acknowledgement. Beautiful as she was, the holy caste was all that kept his kind from far greater endeavors than meager brawls in the pit. Still, his filthy thoughts hungered, and so he molested her with his eyes a bit longer. Thelise stepped aside and planted herself in the seat; only then did he notice her clothes. She dressed in a rather traditional robe (which meant that it was covered in a distracting amount of pointless embroideries), and her mantle bore the ghostly visage of chained and blindfolded woman; presumably the spirit of justice or some priestly nonsense. Still, experienced-in-battle as she was, Thelise's robe featured a long slit along the side, granting her better movement and revealing her less conservative leggings.

He took note of her black stalking as as Thelise crossed her legs. A lock of silver hair fell out from beneath her hood, and she flipped it back in order to hold her gaze upon him. She was not at all pleased to be in the presence of a warlock—there was a distinct curtness to her words.

"Victor Naught."

"In the flesh," he said with a smile, "And you are...?"

"Please, spare me your tactics of courtship. You know exactly who I am and therefore you know exactly why I'm here."

He sat back his chair, slightly less amused but certainly more focused, "Do I, now?"

"I'm in the need of a partner—"

"I prefer the company of shamans... which doesn't say much for you. At least the 'Earthmother' respects the importance of night as well as day, and I'm appreciative of that."

"This is more important than your goblin-run arena skirmishes. This is a deathmatch."

He shrugged casually, "Been there, done that, sweetheart. I've seen what lies on the other side; do you forget who I am? What I'm capable of?"

"There will be no resurrection from this battle, Victor. Your remains will be disposed of. Its purpose has every ounce of magnitude as the day that Lordaeron fell."

Victor's saliva seemed to curdle in his own mouth at the mere mention of such a tragedy. He took his glass of wine and went for a sip, but there was nothing left to save him from the grisly memory. He had lost all too many to Prince Arthas' betrayal, and he loathed the unliving because of it. Thelise's soothing presence and flawless appearance consoled him without words, and so he remembered his manners and called for the waitress.

"Another glass, miss, and the lady will have the same."

Thelise showed no response to the gesture, but there seemed to be a mutual understanding beginning to take hold. Victor had given her his full attention.

"Explain yourself."

The elf leaned forward and pressed her fingertips together as she began to explain. Of their own accord, Victor's eyes traveled in search of cleavage, but her robe lacked any such cut that would indulge him in such a manner. It was likely intentional.

"Too long have we endured the filth in this city. Too long have the Sunreavers taken up residence and safe haven within our walls and behind our protective barriers. Even you can agree that the brutish Horde have no place in the Kingdom of Magic."

Victor shook his head. "I'm not their biggest fan and vice versa, but—"

"The time for action is at hand. The Silver Covenant and the Sunreavers have agreed to put an end to the feud once and for all, but with minimal bloodshed. A two-on-two fight to the death... if we high elves prove victorious, the filthy blood elves will leave the city for good, and Dalaran will once-again belong to the Alliance. My people will belong to the Alliance, truly and totally."

He held his hands up, "I don't care for politics, Thelise. I admit I know and care little of what society needs or the Alliance wants." Two glasses appeared in front of them with almost suddenly; the waitress had appeared and slipped away without a sound. Victor sipped his wine. "What you're saying is beautiful, wonderful, but what's in it for me?"

" What's in it for you?!" the priestess echoed with shock and appall, "You will be the man who rights all of what went horribly wrong in the Third War, the one who reunites and revives the bond between the high elves and humanity, you will spring eternal in history, Victor Naught will be remembered forever as—"

She stopped as she felt his hand on her knee from beneath the table. "What else is in it for me?"

The high elf shuddered and a faint hue appeared in her cheeks. He could tell at her expression that she had encountered few men so brash in her life as a priestess, and though she had not lived for hundreds or even thousands of years as many of her brethren had, she was a prodigy in the art of combat. He knew of her prowess in battle, but doubted her wisdom. Though the glass could easily reveal what was going on, the positions of the candle, the glasses, and Victor's half-finished plate of food all served to conceal his mischief in an uncanny way.

As she did not immediately remove him, he slowly began to gently rub her thigh. It was unfortunate that she received the glass of wine so soon, but he figured that the best that could come from his advance was her throwing it in his face. At worst, he would lose his hand. It was a pure oddity that neither had happened immediately, and so he allowed instinct to guide him. Victor's hand began to travel along the lady's thigh, gently squeezing at her as his eyes fixed on hers. Her cheeks began to flush like rose petals, but he could not discern whether she was consumed with rage or something else.

Victor's hand traveled further and under her robe as her lips parted to release a shallow breath. Every inch—every diameter he trespassed upon Thelise's body seemed to effortlessly bring down another line of her defenses. She was limber; fit, but not muscular... he marveled at the realization that he could actually attest to this, and that this was actually occurring with someone of her position and stature, but Victor did not pause to question it. He could not hesitate or it could mean certain failure. Thelise's eyes scanned the restaurant in search of witnesses, but there were none who met her gaze.

Victor's sights were locked upon her, but inside he was jubilant to pass beyond her stockings and discover her garter.

His bare flesh met hers; how he longed to have an encounter with a high elf maiden—but not all was as he imagined. Her thigh was no less lean, and her skin no softer than the very stockings held tight to the rest of her leg, but it was not as smooth as he anticipated. Thelise pushed his hand away and fixed her robe, straightening it out before she took a very generous drink from her wine glass (much to Victor's relief when he saw her reach for it). His mind was not on her reaction, however, but on the scars he felt upon her thigh. Thelise looked at him with shame but looked at him still. He was not repulsed in the least; far be it for him, a warlock, to judge those who self-harm, but he was left confused... and still hopelessly aroused.

"I'll consider your... proposition," she said with her eyes darting over the room once more, "if you'll accept mine."

Though he had almost forgotten it, Victor had decided to accept her invitation long before that; he derived great thrill from risk and battle. It seemed that his greatest triumphs were those where the death's grip was just out of reach, but even on those seldom occasions when his spirit would break free from his mortal shell and drift into the darkness, he would shortly after be beckoned back to the land of the living by some gifted healer. The thought that, this time, there would be no such 'safety net'—that at long last, his story may very well find an end, enthralled him.

Still, he had no intent of missing out on the sweet and supple opportunity sitting across from him. Visibly shaken as she was, he opted to calm her by holding fast to the issues.

"And what happens if we fail, Thelise?"

"Wh-what?"

She looked more unnerved than before. He wasn't the most skilled at handling the color wheel of emotions at the disposal of the opposite sex. Still, he pressed on with his strategy. "The battle. If we lose, what will happen to your people?"

"My people... My people," she began, "... I don't. I don't want to think about that. Not now. What do you care, anyway?" she spat at him. The elf recoiled and folded her arms, facing her body away and looking at Victor like he was no more than a serpent in search of an easy meal. Faint lines appeared on her face, and though they did little to detract from her appearance, they spoke volumes of her disgust and dissatisfaction with him. Victor felt that any vestige of amity between them had gone up in smoke. Though it was true that he did not care for her people, there was an awful tremor stirring from within him... and it told him not to let her go.

"It was merely a question," Victor defended himself with a casual tone, as if he had not been mere inches from her virginity only a minute prior.

"And it's one I don't care to answer! Failure is not an option, Naught, now do we have a deal?"

"We do," he answered without hesitation.

"Then sign this," Thelise produced a small scroll from her hip, which unfurled to be a charter. She offered him an inked quill, and though he was prepared to use his own, he felt strangely inclined to take hers, simply because it was hers. Victor overreached and touched her fingertips in the exchange; her fingers were cold with what he assumed with nervousness, but hands were delicate and small. He avoided her eyes, lest he become entranced by the vibrant blue glow and embarrass himself. He was fascinated— perhaps a smitten with the young lady. Having taken an interest in his share of women over the years, Victor knew there was much undue grief in denial, and so he wasted no time with the process.

But something told him that he could not fight this sensation if he tried. It was not love—he had known love before, but it was not as raw and brazen as lust. It was simply... intrigue. He passed the parchment back to her.

"Good. Now that our affairs are in order, I bear a letter from Lady Windrunner."

Victor paused mid-sip from his new glass of wine. "Excuse me?"

"A sealed letter, I might add, and it was hand-delivered to me from the Ranger General, herself."

"The... THE Ranger General. Herself."

"I hope the gravity of the situation has impressed itself upon you." Thelise rose from her seat and muttered, "My business is concluded here. We'll meet again."

The letter Victor had received was incredibly brief for the level of security it was given, and he pondered why Thelise hadn't been bothered to pass the information along, herself. It thanked him for his agreement to help and repeated much of what she had already informed him, but included an invitation to stay at the Violet Citadel the next evening. Considering the stature of the woman who had written it, he felt inclined to appear. His arrival was cordial but uneventful, and his teleportation to his room was jarring, to say the least, but as he found himself with ample time to prepare for the dinner banquet, he couldn't help but marvel at the design.

The weather in Northrend was always brisk, and at the altitude of Dalaran, magical precautions were necessary to prevent the harsh winds of Icecrown from freezing the very streets. Still, in his room high upon the citadel spire, the very stone tiles beneath him seemed to be enchanted to resist the chill. An octuplet of large, white marble columns stretched high to the ceiling, which bore a stained glass design of sapphire blue. Similar windows of golden hue encircled the room, and despite it being late in the day, all seemed to glow as soft as the harvest moon. A large, indigo design loosely resembling a four-sided star was set in the center of the floor, pointing almost directly to the exit, a pair of bookcases, the full-sized bed (with a rich violet canopy supported by the posts), and finally his dresser, which bore an ornate golden mirror.

Victor combed his dark brown hair as he scrutinized his reflection. He was always fond of his goatee and trimmed it with the utmost care. When coupled with his thin, slightly pointed nose and fair complexion, his appearance wasn't dissimilar to that of a clean-cut satyr—and more than one woman had attempted to insult him with this fact. He adjusted the collar on his black filigreed doublet, which suited his thinner, slightly willowy form much better than it would a broader man, and pondered whether the Lady Windrunner would expect a test of his magical prowess. The letter had not mentioned anything of the sort, and so he decided dress with formality in mind. Having unpacked his necessities, he set out to explore what he could of the Violet Citadel before dinner was served.

When Victor opened the door he was shocked to see a red-haired, high elven man marching into his room. A tabard featuring the shining white sun of the Silver Covenant held fast to his formal attire as he stood proudly aside. He tilted his head up to herald: "Ranger General Windrunner approaches!"

No more than a second later had Vereesa Windrunner appeared in his doorway in the flesh. He felt inclined to bow but could not bring himself to kneel, being intruded upon in his own sanctum of all places. She was just slightly taller than Victor and her long, platinum locks rested buoyantly upon her armored shoulders. The Silver Covenant tabard was almost fit-to-form, and though Victor did not dare to ogle her (for awe and for respect for her husband, one of the most powerful mages alive), Vereesa had an ample chest, and was in such shape that he almost wondered whether she had ever left the battlefield. Though she likely had centuries to yet live, her face bore vague traces of her years spent in the Second and Third Wars, most note-worthy among them being a much fairer skin tone than her kin.

"Enough formality, Zale. I must request a private word."

The herald left quickly, as if he were as intimidated as Victor had felt. The great wooden door shut behind him with an audible clunk, but Vereesa looked over her shoulder to be certain, none-the-less. Victor attempted to open his mouth but she cut him off before so much as a sound could escape.

"The situation you have been briefed on is one I have willingly and knowingly set in motion; an official agreement made between Aethas Sunreaver and I. I have selected Thelise to undertake this course of action because I know she is capable of doing whatever the Silver Covenant requires of her; she has proven that time and time and time again. She is a highly-skilled, highly-trained, highly-efficient healer. That said, you have proven nothing to me and my people."

"I—"

"Silence," she said with all the authority of any man in her position. "You have proven yourself handy in the arena and though I cannot say this will be the same as some goblin-muddled pit fight, I can assure you of certain details. First I emphasize that as of yesterday's charter signing you have officially been placed under my command, is that understood?"

"Wait a minute, w—"

Vereesa's open hand smashed into the side of his face, sending Victor a few steps from where he had stood. He had barely regained his senses when she continued.

"If you'd like to review it, I have your contract right here. You can wipe your tears with it, if you'd like." She tossed the scroll at him and Victor took it, but he had a feeling she would continue regardless of whether or not he would like to validate her words.

"I will concede that you were my first choice, Mr. Naught, but I will not titillate you with any further flattery. This operation must be a success, and furthermore upon that, it must be a GREAT success. A clear success. The Alliance, Horde, and all the city of Dalaran must bear witness to your undisputed triumph over the Sunreaver combatants.

"I want the forests of Quel'thelas to wither in disgrace at what its children have become. I want Kalimdor to recoil with rage at the monsters upon its soil. I want all of Eastern Kingdoms to speak of the magic-hungry filth that dares take residence at its helm, and I want all of Northrend to hear of their shameful defeat for a hundred years to come.

"Victor, your job is not only to vanquish your opponents, but to expose them for all that is impure and condemnable in their nature—in their very being. They must be humiliated."

Though Vereesa's words were steady and rang true with militaristic determination, her eyes were alight with a hateful fire. Victor was thankful that this would be a match to the death, because he did not want to encounter her should they fail. Regardless, he doubted he had heard her correctly when she stated that he was her first choice for such a task. How could he, of all people, expose others for what is "impure and condemnable"? As Victor mulled over the concept for a few moments more, he came to understand how a warlock, who some consider among the lowest in society, might serve to emphasize the point she wanted to make.