Amethystra Pt. 06

"Whore-cunt," Lirafey scolded her, shaking her head. The women laughed heartily.

"I have considered the realm of Phrygia," Iliari said. "Spathia as well. The heat of the southern realms might be good for my humors."

"Dry and hot, then wet and hot," Shandra said, shaking her head.

Iliari pulled a rolled map from her pouch of holding, then unrolled it on the table between the sofa and chairs. Amethystra was central in the northwestern Free Marches, situated on its southern border. To the west were Vanir and Aesir—collectively the Vanasir—with the elven citadel of Rua'Corona on the coast of the Northwind Sea between the Free Marches and the Vanasir lands.

South of Rua'Corona, Faireweather and Deepharbor bordered the southern Northwind Sea, the latter of which was renowned for its towering skyport, where airships from far and wide could moor and trade amongst the rest of wider Deepharbor. Iliari had spent much of her Helorite years there as an assassin, murdering those that would exploit the weak and poor for their own gain. The same could be said of Faireweather, both cities home to depraved nobility, though neither were without their goodly paragons.

She looked further south, to Harrowvale where wild elves ruled and intervened on the passage of non-elves travelling through. Westward was the Midenvale, and in the other direction Artannia, known as a holy realm ruled by a paladin-king. She had no interest in that, nor in Solaire, a similar city-state.

"There," Iliari said, tapping her finger on a stretch of land southeast of Amethystra. "The Wildlands."

"Red orcs and wild elves," Lirafey warned. "All hostile except to one another. More than that, centaurs and minotaurs and feral fey creatures. No safe place for a child."

"The edge of life and death," Iliari said, a hand resting on her stomach. "Never idle."

She smiled, confident in her abilities, even with child. And she was certain she could find a small clan or gathering to take her in. She could be very persuasive. Luriia approached, fear and love on her face.

"I pray the gods watch over you well, my friend," Luriia said, embracing Iliari after she settled on her fate. "Should you need me, any of us, I am always listening for a magical call from you."

Iliari kissed the woman, then nodded.

"Dragonback or teleportation?" Shandramethystra asked Iliari.

The elven assassin grinned. "Dragonback."

Shandra returned her grin and nodded. "As night falls."

Iliari nodded, then spent the next hour or so enjoying the hospitality of Lirafey Mourlefey Torvirr. The women laughed, cried, and made oaths to meet again, particularly when Iliari birthed her giantborn child.

The chapel of House Torvirr was splendid, if small, and comparatively light considering the otherwise dark, gothic architecture of the mansion. Luriia didn't come here often, of late, but with so many emotions whirling through her, not the least of which her love for her friends and family, she saw fit to recline in the center of the temple, looking up at the sunset-lit dome of stained glass, gold, and white marble. Bursts of color splashed all over the cylindrical room, and at the center of it all, wearing nothing but refracted and tinted light, Luriia felt only warmth and comfort.

Four white marble columns reached up to the high dome of the chapel, each of them streaked with gold and flecked with rubies, and upon those columns, leaning toward the center, were carvings of Syrune herself, nude reaching for the shafts of colorful light cast by the glass dome and reflected over and over again by the panes of silvered glass just below the glass dome.

In truth, Luriia scarcely saw the sculptures of her goddess anymore. She reclined on the centrally-located chaise lounge, one leg draped haphazardly over one side.

Luriia was in turmoil, and she knew the cause of that turmoil was her own selfishness wishing that all her kith and kin would stay close. Yet Quilin would be off sailing the skies with the Ravinwolf Guild more often than not, doing gods-knew-what to earn a name for himself. Shandramethystra, now a dragon and no mere dark elf, would be absent for a short while transporting another beloved companion, Iliari, far to the south. Only powerful magic would be able to connect the two of them in short order. She had heard of the union between Venos Larque and Cyra, and Luriia considered it a fine match, and one that would do Cyra's heart well. Her sister, Myrynda Torvirr, would not be long for Amethystra, as the whims of Rivest often had his most prized disciple creating intrigue and shadowy justice across the Free Marches and beyond.

She had other friends, of course. Lirafey would remain as the Moon Maiden of Freemarch. Silvi, the House Mistress, had long been a faithful servant and was resolved to live out the rest of her days in comfort and in command of House Torvirr's daily upkeep. Reina, the stoneborn girl that had recently come on as kitchen staff, was even now proving her worth by mending many of the house wagons, carriages, and such like.

Of course, her daughters were her dearest loves. Analise was proving a formidable young lady with both the sword and her wit. Young Sigir would require constant care and attention as she grew from her infancy into a young lady in her own right.

And there was Hammer. Dear, sweet, imposing and loving Hammer. The love of her life, father of her children, the Barbarian King himself.

Just the thought of him, of his kind, deep voice, his warm touch and cool eyes, and the way his hard flesh felt against her put a smile on her face. Indeed, thinking of the big man often had her arching her back or curling her toes in anticipation of bliss. And though both of them often shared their affections with others, there was nothing she—or he, she knew—desired more than their eternal spouse.

Her supreme confidence in his fidelity, in his love, in his desire for her set her at ease.

The lights in the chapel turned to gold, then ruby, then a spiral of both. The air grew heavy, the chapel itself seeming to grow larger than was possible as the presence of Syrune filled it. The pressure of divinity in this small chapel coalesced into a lithe, curvaceous form that settled atop Luriia, comfortably nestled atop her body with a ruby red smile, a waterfall of curled crimson hair, and bright golden eyes around impossibly deep pupils.

"My love," the deity said, kissing Luriia atop her breasts. The naelf gasped. If the luxurious weight of a goddess pressed against her naked body hadn't been thrilling enough, the innate pleasure that came with every expression of the deity's affection certainly was. Luriia wanted to spread her thighs and allow the goddess to do as she pleased, to give herself with abandon to her beloved deity.

"My goddess," Luriia breathed, wrapping her arms around the divine creature.

"You are troubled," Syrune said, her voice like music that sounded both in her mind and in her ears. "I can see in your heart. All of your concerns, your wishes, your boundless love for those around you."

"I will miss my friends. My son."

"I will miss him too," Syrune said. "He has eschewed my protection, as well as Alizarin the Crimson Thunder. He desires the independence to be his own man, even at the risk of his own demise."

Luriia took a deep breath, closing her eyes. She smiled. "I should have expected as much."

"You and your husband embraced us readily enough," Syrune remarked.

"We are different people. Quilin has grown up with tales of heroism and bravery. Of adventure and high magic. Yet he has never had the opportunity to seek it out himself," Luriia said. "My son is as wild as his father ever was, if not more so, and now that he is out on his own, he will fully realize that potential."

"And the gods will take notice," Syrune said. Luriia couldn't deny that, nor could she ignore the implicit threat. "He bears divinity in him. It is a rare commodity in this age. Many of my peers, for good or ill, will seek it out to raise their own paragons, just as I have raised you, my beloved Luriia."

"What does the Black Bride say of this?" Luriia inquired.

"Nothing," Syrune said, slithering off of the dark elf. "Because there is nothing to say. He has defied all but the most hidden potentialities woven by the Fates."

Luriia smiled again, proud.

"Yes, he is full of surprises. Perhaps that is why she is so smitten by him," Syrune said flatly.

"He should be so lucky. To bed a queen is an honor, but to bed a goddess?"

"You would know," Syrune said, looking up at the sculptures surrounding the pair. She smiled, and with a wave of her hand painted them in all the most precious colors: crimson, gold, silver, lavender, and periwinkle.

"I am, as always, humbled by your presence," Luriia said as she sat upright on her lounge. She arched her back, stretching. It occurred to her that this level of familiarity between a goddess and her paragon was not...typical.

"I owed you a warning, if nothing else," Syrune said.

Luriia nodded, her mood solemn for a moment as she considered the very real threats to Quilin Torvirr, her eldest son. Her ruminations were brief, interrupted by a kiss from her beloved goddess.

And in that kiss, decades of pleasure crushed her in the throes of ecstasy, arching her back, curling her toes. Her hair stood on end, then writhed like silken serpents. She gasped, crying out in pleasure, and the echoes of eons of pleasure that Syrune embodied washed over the chapel. It was but a fragment of what the goddess was capable of.

And in the end, several hours later, Luriia ached in every muscle, her voice was hoarse, her loins spasmed, and she found herself barely able to roll over to sip from a decanter of wine to quench her thirst.

"Gods," she oathed, slowly regaining her senses and faculties. Syrune was gone—likely gone from the moment of their kiss.

But she had been replaced by another presence. Luriia recognized her shadowy form, the lustful tormentor that had dwelt within her for these past weeks. It had been exorcised by Syrune's kiss. Had the goddess known of its presence?

Of course she had. That was a silly question.

But what was she to do with it now? It seemed lost, and its form seemed to flicker at the edges, as though it was not meant for this reality. Luriia recognized that and seized on an impulse.

She began casting a spell, one granted to her by Syrune years ago. It gave the shadowy creature shape, solidity, but in so doing bound it to Luriia's will. It looked at her with brightly-glowing crimson eyes—then fell to its knees, its feminine, decadent form altering to perfectly reflect Luriia's body. It crawled toward her, and golden bands began to form around its wrists and neck.

In a raspy, hollow voice, it spoke.

"How...serve...Mistress?"

Luriia grinned decadently. "Come."

When Hammer returned to his bedchamber that night, aching from a long day of sword-swinging, stone-lifting, and feasting, it was unusually dark. He placed his greatsword on the sword rack near the front door, just above the elegant sword Luriia sometimes carried. He stripped his sweaty shirt off, then doffed his pants. Nude, he strode to the wash basin, where conjured spring water awaited. He splashed his face, rinsed his beard, and dabbed a cloth into the water to wipe the sweat and grim from the rest of his torso.

A pair of familiar hands caressed his buttocks, squeezing it.

Another pair reached around, grasping for his manhood.

He turned to see his wife, licking her lips as she began to stroke him.

And his wife again, biting her lip as she stood next to...herself?

Hammer, more impulse than reason, grinned.

"Welcome home, Barbarian King," Luriia Torvirr said.

She kissed him as her shadowy simulacrum fell to her knees, commanded by the Matron Mother's will, and hollowed her shadowy throat with his manhood.

Welcome home, indeed.