Amethystra

Iliari's eyelids drooped, her mouth hanging open as a whisper of a moan struggled to escape. Her hands wrapped around the thick cords of muscle in her draconian wife. She could almost feel her draconic fire engulfing her in that moment, and her body thrived. Her nipples stiffened to tiny, hard nubs, both of them pierced with golden bands, while her sex flushed with arousal.

Cyra left her all too soon, her attention back on the child as she worked her nipple back into her mouth. She cooed at the child, bouncing her gently in her strong arms. Iliari's mouth was dry, her body weak with need.

She was hungry, aye. But not for stew. Cyra would have known that if she hadn't been so consumed with mothering the child at her tit.

Cyra breathed a sigh of relief as she finally felt a cool prodding sensation between her thighs. She'd been aching for this since dawn, when Iliari was out of the house and she had awoken to the flaming need she'd learned to live with for the last several years. No amount of self-care could have slaked her true need.

Her hands gripped strong shoulders, dark nails pressing against powerful flesh as she slowly sank down on a cock she had been too long without.

Venos Larque looked up at her, milk dripping down his chest as Cyra's bountiful bosoms resumed their flow. She squeezed harder as she lowered herself completely, the muscular half-elf more than her match. He was pressed back against her headboard, sitting up so that his face was full of her crimson flesh. His manhood was exquisite, and though she knew it was warm to the touch, it felt cool against her inner core. Such was life as a creature of fire and scale.

Her draconic heritage had not manifested a draconic snout, nor scaled wings or a powerful tail. Nor had it granted her great, powerful magics such as those of Shandra, the Archmage of Amethystra, and many others across the land. Rather, it gave her an exceedingly forceful personality, skin the color of a red dragon's scales (and a few of those, as well), and a white-hot body temperature that could fuel a furnace.

It was no wonder Venos was dripping in sweat.

Cyra threw herself down, thrusting him fully into her as she licked across his throat, tasting his sweat as she began to rock her hips powerfully against him. He met her thrusts, pushing as he could from his position, and squeezed the full, round globes of her powerful backside. As her own muscular body collided with his over and over again, the bed creaked, groaning about this savage mistreatment.

Cyra grasped at her breasts, groping them for her own delight and inadvertently spraying her lover with milk. She didn't even realize it until she looked down and saw him grinning up at her, pearly white milk dripping off his cheeks. She thought, for just a moment, to apologize, but she never got the chance. His hands pressed to her chest and shoved, rocking her back and laying her flat on the bed between his thighs. Cyra looked at him, squealing, and bit her lip when she saw him watching his comparatively pale cock piercing her deep red petals. She was glistening, she knew, and reached down to confirm. She caught his gaze, just for a moment, and tasted herself on her fingers. His grin delighted her. She reached back down, both hands at her loins as she spread herself open for him. He watched her soft, delicate lips splay wide, pinned under her fingertips and baring the stiff, tiny nub of her jewel.

Cyra watched as he slid the tip of his thumb against his tongue and pressed it to her most sensitive gem, stroking it in light, tight circles as he rocked his hips. The draconian cried out in pleasure, barely able to maintain her grip on her vulva as he rutted her, thumb tenacious against her clitoris. She came swiftly, back arching as she spasmed wildly. Nectar flowed from her loins, coating his shaft as her insides groped at his invading manhood.

"Now," he breathed, hips pulling back and hand going to the root of his cock. She felt him slipping out and her legs worked around him, pinning him tight to her and holding his cock deep in her.

"In me," she breathed, gasping, clawing at his back in desperation.

Venos's eyes went wide and he almost complied. But he managed to disengage, pulling out just enough that his virility sprayed across her stomach in thick ropes that swiftly slid down her softly-sculpted abdomen to pool on the sheets under her.

"Gods," she moaned, complaining even as she rode out her final shivers of pleasure. "Why did you do that?"

"You're fertile," he said knowingly. "It's risky enough to do this without a sheath."

"I am the sheath!" she shouted, grabbing a pillow and slapping at his head. He blocked the pillow, trapped it under his arm, and fell over her.

"I'm no father," he said softly, seriously, into her golden eyes.

"I wouldn't ask you to be," Cyra responded after a moment. She twisted, tossing him onto the bed and slipping out from under him. She was dripping with her own leaking milk and Venos's sweat, so she went for a towel and dried herself off, then started to dress herself.

"I have magic enough to go again," Venos said from the bed, smirking at the imposing, beautiful draconian. She glared at him despite her temptation.

"The only cock I'm interested in is the kind that's going to give me a child," she said. "If you need further relief, there is no shortage of courtesans in Amethystra."

"Cyra, we've been friends for a while," Venos said, sitting on the bed, knees apart and manhood hanging off the edge of her mattress. "What are you about? Are you and Iliari trying to conceive a child?"

The draconian looked up from the belt she was cinching over her long tunic, and she knew the perceptive warrior had his answer. "I have wanted to bear a child for a long time now. I think Iliari would be a wonderful mother, even if she is not overly...motherly. With the Torvirr girls, I mean."

"And you would balance that out," Venos surmised. Cyra's soft, almost sad smile confirmed that. She nodded and sighed. "I never considered you the motherly type. But then, I've not seen you with the Torvirr children much."

"I don't want to force her into this. Already she acts as though we are caged dogs, domesticated and weak." Cyra bent down and pulled on her boots—tall, black leather affairs with silver buckles that matched her silver-trimmed, white tunic. It was striking against her deep red skin.

"She longs for adventure," Venos said, "while you long to simply settle down."

"She would resent me if I forced her to settle down with me, but what else is there to do with a child?" Cyra asked. "It isn't as though the Free Marches are bursting with malevolence, anyroad."

"Iliari is not old, not by elven standards, and not by a longshot," Venos said, finally standing and retrieving his trousers from the floor. "On the one hand, a domesticated life with you might be a blink in the span of her lifetime. On the other, she may be desperate to live life to the fullest. She would not be the first young elf to feel that way."

"She's nearly two hundred years old. I would not call her young."

"No. Nor would I. But she may live thrice as long as that, if not more," Venos reminded her. "In some ways, she is younger than you and I."

Cyra sighed.

"Perhaps you should have a frank conversation with your wife," Venos said, walking toward Cyra and giving her a soft kiss on the cheek. He threw his shirt over his head and slung his sword belt over his shoulder, his rose-hilted sword slapping against his back. "You know where to find me if you need me."

Cyra smiled, and whatever snide comment she might have made was swallowed up by the turmoil of emotions within her. She wanted a family, that much she knew. She just didn't know if she was willing to sacrifice her marriage to Iliari for it.

"Strictly women?"

Iliari sipped dark red wine from her glass, letting the fluid stain her upper lip before lowering the delicate vessel. "Well, not strictly."

"So, I've got a chance?" the man before her asked. He was handsome, she could admit, but not quite her type. Still, her itch had been profound of late, and Cyra, dear Cyra, simply was growing too...domesticated. Tame. Predictable. All of her talk of family, roots, and such like was making the elf feel somewhat trapped. She needed to get away. Far away. Perhaps she should take a gryphon from the Tower of the Crimson Hawk and fly it south to the Hordelands, where wild elves and red orcs were common allies, living on the edge of life and death in a savage, unforgiving terrain.

The mere thought set her heart to pounding.

"Well?"

She realized she'd been ignoring the man, and his question had hung in the air awaiting her response. He wouldn't be the first man she'd bedded and wouldn't be the last. But he wasn't Hammer, who had taken her once during a revel. He wasn't unique or interesting. He was just another man looking for elven slit to warm his lap.

"Hardly," she responded finally, leaning back and sipping her wine.

He looked crestfallen, and she thought that maybe she could have let him down a touch easier. But, truly, she didn't care. She needed an adventure. She needed adrenaline.

She finished her glass of wine and slipped out of her chair, leaving the glass sitting on the middle of the table. Iliari could feel the man's eyes on her, no doubt watching her backside, tightly wrapped in comfortable leathers. She gave him the consolation of a provocative gait, letting her cheeks bounce side to side with each step before shoving out of the Horned Harlot, one of Amethystra's most prominent taverns.

The proprietor of the Harlot was Coira Revel, a buxom and fetching fiendborne woman that reminded Iliari of a softer, more sensual Cyra. She attributed the likeness to the generous bust and the vivid red skin. Coira knew how to get her blood flowing—that was part of her business, after all, secluded in her workshop crafting all manner of sexual artifice—but Iliari didn't want something so pedestrian. She wanted a thrill.

She wanted to feel something. Anything. Anything to get away from the chains that would bind her to the mundane life of a wife and mother.

Iliari stopped in the middle of the street in front of the Horned Harlot, her light blouse shifting in the night breeze as she closed her eyes and lifted her face skyward. It was near midnight, she knew, and that hour would come upon her like a fell warning.

It always did. Ever since the elf had bound herself to Helor, decades ago, she had known the exact moment of deepest night, when darkness grew long and vile things spawned in the blackest corners of the world. She had once attempted to assassinate the dear woman who had taken her in and given her true purpose in the world, all in the name of Helor.

She had done many evil things for that goddess, who had found her in her most idle—and most vulnerable—of times.

And now Iliari could feel that tug, the pull at her soul, as her idle hands began to look for purpose. Helor was there, in the emptiness that the deity embodied, patiently waiting for Iliari's return. Indeed, the elf had forgotten much about her time serving Helor, about how the darkness of shadow used to ooze from her flesh, how she could leap through the darkness and find herself far, far away. And about how she used to look up to the midnight sky to seek Helor's guidance.

Her eyes snapped open and she looked down, jaw clenched as she anticipated the shadowy tendrils of Helor's touch seeping from her flesh.

She breathed easily when her pale skin showed no such aberration, but the seemingly near brush with Helor's wickedness put her feet in motion. Her fear that boredom and domesticity would lead her down a dark, vulnerable path was real, because it had happened before. Purpose was what she needed, and Helor would too quickly fill the void if Iliari could find nothing else.

Her feet carried her along the avenues, each one curving, until she found herself in the de facto temple district of Amethystra. She was on the opposite side of town from the Violet Tower, and just east of the Tower of the Crimson Hawk. A cluster of four temples sat around the cul-de-sac of Pearl Street. There were four other temples at the end of each cul-de-sac that shot off from Ovregard Street, the main avenue shooting through the Temple District and into the eastern quarter of Amethystra.

A figure stood out to Iliari, giant in stature, though he was not a giant by race. Not strictly speaking, at least. She recognized the man as a goliath, enormous in stature and descended from giants, certainly. She knew little of their kind, but she recognized Gilgan runes on his chain mail, the language of ancient giants, though she could not read it. He took note of her approach before she realized she was walking toward him, and the elf stopped in her tracks. She swallowed hard, feeling the anticipation of seduction building in her.

He smiled at her, and his deep iron eyes, seeming to glow in the night, flashed light lightning.

"You are a follower of the Black Bride?" Iliari asked, finally taking note of exactly which temple he was exiting.

"Hardly," he responded, his voice deep and resonant. He reminded her of Hammer in that way. "My companion has...an interest in one of Louhi's clergy."

Iliari arched her brow as she folded her arms over her chest. She had not moved closer, and he had made no effort to close the distance to her. Halfway down the steps, he towered over the somewhat diminutive elf. "The Lady of Fate is enigmatic, as are her followers."

The goliath nodded sagely. "Part of their charm, so I'm told."

"What business do you have, then?" Iliari asked as the huge man lingered, hooking thumbs on his belt, where a battle axe and longsword rested at the ready.

"Passing time," he said. "Listening."

"For what?" Iliari asked.

"My lady, of course," he responded.

"Wife?"

"Hardly."

"Good."

Iliari smirked at him, walked forward and across his field of view, then past the temple's black stone steps. She looked over her shoulder to see, with satisfaction, that the goliath was watching her pass. But he did not move. Rather, he chuckled.

"You find me amusing?" she asked over her shoulder.

"I find you out of your depth, elf," the goliath said. "I could split you in twain."

"I'm sure you say that to all the whores in all the brothels across the Free Marches and beyond," she said. "And I'm sure you're not incorrect."

"Yet you persist?" he asked, finally taking a step down the stairs, toward Iliari.

"Yet I persist," she responded, turning away again and slipping into an alley.

When the goliath entered, her leggings were untied, sex bared, and blouse unbuttoned completely, baring her sleek elven physique and petite breasts. He was upon her swiftly, scooping her up and pressing her into a wall. He shucked her leggings with his massive, powerful hand, sending her boots to the ground and her leggings with them. She spread herself around him, wrapping her sleek thighs around his broad waist. Delight manifested as a grin on her face when she felt his manhood bulging against his trousers, pressing against her.

He rose to the occasion swiftly, and for just an instant Iliari was concerned she truly was out of her depth. Hammer, years ago, had been large, uncomfortable, but delightful in that way. This man was larger, broader, in every way. When his head pressed against her, she felt a rush of fear course through her. Her hands pressed to his chest, pushing slightly, and he paused. His gray eyes seemed to run over her, inspecting her for her thoughts.

"Ease," he said, simply. One hand gripping her bare bottom, the other gripping his manhood, he massaged her with his crown, coaxing her to pleasure. Her hands relaxed, petting the thick slabs of his pectorals while he stroked her gently, thoroughly. It did not take long for Iliari to wax restless. Her eyes burned into his as her fingers wove around the back of his neck. She pulled him close, kissing him savagely and arching her back. She pushed her hips down on him as best she could and felt his crown breach. The immediate ache as her flesh stretched around him was agonizing bliss.

"Ease," he said again, but Iliari was growing ravenous. Her skin was aflame with need, her mind melting into a carnal state that could only feel, not think. She pushed down again, feeling his crest push through, feeling his thick shaft filling her slowly. The goliath let go of himself, both hands gripping her bottom. It did not escape either of them that he could have held her easily in only one of his massive, strong hands.

She expected him to thrust recklessly, but he did not. He worked himself to and fro, massaging her sex with his manhood, giving her a chance to acclimate to his size. She knew she could never truly acclimate to his manhood, as big as it was, but she knew, now, that she could withstand the punishment his cock would deliver.

Indeed, she now craved it. The fear washed away as lust suffused her. No, not lust. Not just lust. Her primal need for adrenaline, for the edge, whatever it may be, demanded that she take him fully.

She growled in her throat, clutching him and squeezing with her legs, her heels digging into his lower back. He acquiesced, finally, and thrust himself in as far as her body would allow. She gasped, unable to make any other sound through the myriad of sensation she felt in that moment. He pulled out and thrust in again. And again.

And again.

Her hands clawed at his back, raking over his neck and shoulders. She struggled to breathe, to even whimper, as every thrust took her breath away. Time dilated for her, and the moments she spent against that wall felt like an eternity. Yet when it ended, Iliari gasped for breath and wondered what had taken so long.

She felt the goliath pulsating within her, his manhood twitching as a warm glow began to fill Iliari. She had felt her own climax moments before, shuddering through her like a bowstring released. Her hands tingled, toes curled and numb from the sensation. Licking her lips, she leaned her head forward against the broad, hard forehead of her lover.

"Wolf."

"Hm?" she murmured in response.

"My name," he said. "Wolf."

"Fitting, somehow," she said as he began to flag, slipping out of her. "Well met, Wolf."

"And you, lady..."

"Moonshadow," she said lightly, eyes locked on the man's bulging physique.

She felt nothing. No excitement, no attraction to his undeniably powerful form. She looked down at his manhood, glistening even in the night, and wanted to congratulate it for a job well done.

Wolfe put his hands on her shoulders, kissed her forehead. "My friend is waiting for me," he said, and Iliari snapped her gaze to the mouth of the alleyway. His friend was leaning against the wall, inspecting her nails as he tucked himself back in his trousers. "I thank you, Moonshadow."

"Ili—" she started, then simply smiled. "And I, you, Wolf."

Their exchange at an end, Iliari felt oddly hollow, and not for the sudden emptiness between her thighs. She walked ahead of Wolf, caught his friend's eyes, and smiled. She was lovely, someone Iliari might have found fetching were she not so preoccupied. "Thank you for sparing him," she said as she passed. The woman nodded.

"Thank you for sparing me," she said, turning to watch the elf depart. "I can only handle so much of him!"

Iliari heard the woman call after her and smiled a small smile. It was short-lived as she felt, again, the emptiness within.

She looked up in time to see the great hull of a skyship sailing under the moon, casting Amethystra in shadow.

Hammer Thunderborn stood at the prow of the Skystar. They had left the Sky Pillars of Valuar from the southeast less than a week previous, and the magical elemental engine that powered the skyship had kept the enormous vessel aloft and comfortable through storm and high wind and even a dragon attack. The seven-foot-tall barbarian still felt his pulse quicken at the thought of that battle, and a grin tugged at his lips.