Blood Elves for the Blood God Ch. 02

"Rumor is you've been shirking your duties."

Alarel looked up at her friend, a little annoyed and a little amused. Ambassador Aelnara certainly had a way with words. A way she didn't always agree with. "I would never do anything to risk my enterprise," she said. "Everything is in order and running quite smoothly."

The two elves sat within Alarel's office, drinking and gossiping as good friends, who had known each other for many years, tended to do.

The ambassador was a tall woman, her long legs striking out from beneath a tight black dress wrapped around a body built for diplomacy. She sat in a plush velvet chair opposite Alarel, sipping on wine, legs crossed, her figure subsumed by the enormity of the chair. She was intelligent, sophisticated, and refined to a degree necessary for her ambassadorial position; typically well-mannered, learned in every culture within both the Horde and Alliance, as well as other groups such as the gnolls and the Amani.

Her face was lovely and, it seemed, just as refined and intelligent as her upbringing. Currently, she gazed at Alarel with eyes like miniature sunwells. Her hair, as deep and natural a red as fresh firebloom, fell in soft waves around her face.

"Then you're not refusing Warlord Tortuk?" Aelnara asked, feigning innocence. "Or Legionnaire Reznek?"

"I've been preoccupied," Alarel replied, a little defensively. "Everything is running smoothly, however. The girls are happy, the men are happy--"

"And you're very happy, I'm sure. Tortuk and Renzek though, not so much."

Alarel shifted in her seat, folded and unfolded her hands. "They're free to request one of the girls."

"Right." Aelnara smirked. "And meanwhile you'll remain preoccupied with..." Her voice trailed off, but when Alarel didn't respond, the ambassador continued, "I wasn't born yesterday--far from it. Who's the man?"

"Nobody," she said quickly, and gestured towards Aelnara's goblet before her friend could reply. "You like wine?" she asked lamely.

The ambassador raised a long, trimmed eyebrow. Her ears twitched. "I should think so. I've had two cupfuls, as you well know."

"Expensive, isn't it?"

"Oh, Light. Don't let's waste time. What are you after, Alarel?"

She fidgeted nervously, twisting a tassel that hung from her chair between her fingers. "I need you to pull some strings for me," she said, and the look on her friend's face hastened her to continue. "An orc by the name of Gaturn arrived here recently, carrying Kaldorei wine. I've attempted to purchase a few barrels from him but he simply won't budge on the price. What with your expertise I figured..."

"Oh, yes, my expertise! If he does not agree to a discount I shall have him thrown in the dungeons." Smiling, Aelnara stood up and deposited her wine glass upon the table. "I'll do what I can. Perhaps he has some previous infraction I can leverage against him."

"Wonderful. Naturally I will allow you to drink your fair share should you convince him."

"Naturally."

The ambassador had a meeting in an hour and as such couldn't stay any longer. Alarel walked Aelnara to the door, whereupon she turned, noticed Alarel's stomach, and laughed. "I suppose my question has been answered. I could never wear something like that, although I don't fault you for it."

A little embarrassed, Alarel quickly shut the door and spent the next several minutes fiddling with the golden Zandalari crest that hung from a piercing above her belly button. She was still fingering it when a loud knock on the door of her office jolted her from her seat. A little nervous now, she inspected herself in a mirror, threw on a mantelet, and opened the door.

Across the threshold stood two Zandalari men bedecked in golden tattoos and equally golden armor. Their blue skin was bright, and she could just barely differentiate the two by their difference in hair color: one white, the other purple. They looked down at her, into the room, and then at her again. "Alarel Summercrown?" asked the purple-haired troll. She nodded, and they looked her over again, grins forming on their ugly faces. "That suits ya," the same troll said, eyeing her piercing.

Alarel's cheeks burned. "Let's get going," she said hurriedly, pulling her cloak tighter and shouldering past them.

A dense crowd had formed at the harbor when she arrived, escorts in tow. Elves comprised the majority of the gathering, but other races stood around as well, gawking and murmuring amongst each other. The subject of their attention was clear: a Zandalari ship of almost incomprehensible size was docked at port, and it dwarfed every other vessel in the bay. Alarel, too, stopped to stare up at it. Its size alone was enough to marvel at, but the superb craftsmanship gave little doubt as to the majesty of the trolls who manned it. She knew next to nothing of ships or maritime affairs; to her, it seemed almost impossible that such an enormous ship could sail at all, much less make the journey from Zandalar to Quel'thalas.

Yet clearly it had. It was a mountain of a ship, like a massive, sea-time palace. She could only imagine how many men it held, how many men it took to sail it, how many men it could destroy with all of those cannons. Her eyes drifted to the figurehead fixed to the prow of the ship. Despite the warm air, a shiver wracked her body. She knew not what the figurehead was, other than that it was sinister, and dark, and unhuman. Serpentine, with feathers, horns, and rows of teeth carved to fine points. An idol? A god? A living, monstrous creature that resided within the dense jungles of Zandalar? Perhaps Aelnara would know, given her cultural studies, but Alarel hadn't a clue.

A hand nudged her elbow. "Come," grunted the troll with white hair.

Her escort led her onto the ship then, the inside of which was dim and gloomy despite a multitude of portholes. An acrid smell, not entirely unpleasant, clung to the air. She bundled herself up in her cloak while they walked, passing trolls hard at work.

As they progressed through room after room and floor after floor, heads turned to look at her. Frequently, they snickered, but she paid them little mind. She'd been the subject of ridicule before, and learning to ignore it was a skill she'd long since acquired. It bothered her not at all now. Besides, she was here for a reason--a reason beyond merely getting stuffed by their leader.

Deep within the sprawling halls and labyrinthine tunnels of the most preeminent vessel belonging to the Cult of Blood, Zargul sat, enshrouded by smoke and encapsulated by a devout reverence to his god. Incense burned like tiny pyres all around him, the scent of which tanged the air. Spicy, dark, and heady, with a faint hint of honey. He inhaled it with steady breaths, letting the scent ease him. Despite the weather outside, and the efforts of the incense, the room was surprisingly cold. It did not bother him however as he bowed his head, muttering an oath and a prayer to an idol of Hakkar as it hung, blood-red and menacing upon the wall.

"Master?"

Slowly, his eyes opened. He raised his head and cast his eyes to the source of the interruption. "What is it?"

A servant stood in the massive archway leading into his prayer chamber. The servant, a lanky, deformed troll with four fingers upon each hand rather than the normal three, bowed his head. "Your guest has arrived."

He frowned. "Ya know better than to interrupt me at such a time. Who..."

A sharp, feminine voice echoed through the hallway of an adjoining chamber and fluttered through his ears, reverberating inside his skull. He paused in half-remembrance, listening, then chuckled. "That one." Gesturing towards the servant, he said, "Ya did good to tell me. I forgot my own orders to bring her. Send her--"

More noise cut him off. Hurried footsteps and the clicking of heels on hard wood. They grew louder, and voices accompanied them, and in a few seconds an elven woman appeared in the wide open doorway. She looked at his servant with disdain, as if he'd slighted her, but then her big green eyes fell upon him.

"Miss Alarel," he said, dismissing with a nod of the head a trio of guards who had rushed in behind her. "What ya be storming in here for? I know an elf like you ain't gonna convert anytime soon."

"Business," she snapped. "I've been waiting for an hour despite the fact that you summoned me."

Days prior, while still out at sea, he'd ordered his servant to summon Alarel as soon as they docked at Silvermoon. They'd kept in correspondence while he was in Zandalar, during which he'd learned that she'd been tossing around some sort of business idea in her head.

Currently, he asked her what kind of business, but when she only glanced nervously at the servant he smiled. "Alright, we'll discuss it somewhere more private then, hm?"

Standing up, he moved beside her and heard her breath catch. He smelled her sweet scent and placed a gentle hand on her back before leading her down a vacant hallway. The elf was tense at first, but gradually relaxed. And while they walked, they talked, the deep, wooden hallways of the ship lighted by lanterns flickering upon the walls as they went.

"Now, what's this business ya be speaking of? Or is that just a polite way of telling me ya want me to fuck ya brains out again?"

He felt her stiffen. She glanced at him nervously then shook her head. "I have a proposal for you."

"Marriage so soon? Ya move fast, elf."

"No!" she said, but when he grinned she looked away, feeling silly. "I do business in a great many places. Very lucrative business. With your help I'd like to set up shop, so to speak, in Zandalar."

Zar'gul came to an abrupt halt in front of a row of portholes, keeping his arm around her as if afraid she might escape. "Business," he repeated thoughtfully, looking out the window at Silvermoon's sprawling city, towering turrets and magical crystals hovering in air. She eyed him curiously, her fel-green eyes casting a faint, hopeful glow. "Ya want to open a brothel in Zandalar?" he asked.

"That's right."

She could open a whorehouse all on her own down there if she wanted to, but he knew the land and, more importantly, the people. He had men, too. Men that could protect her girls--for a price.

"Ya want my help cuttin' through the bureaucracy there, is that it?" he asked.

She nodded.

"And ya want my men to make sure ya nice and safe from the bad trolls, eh?"

She nodded again.

It wasn't a bad idea. She--they--could make a lot of money. "How many girls ya thinking of sending?"

"A dozen. Maybe more."

"Make it two dozen. Maybe even three. The whole city gonna be lining up to get a taste of Sin'dorei, I assure ya."

Alarel nodded a third time. Then, her ears wiggled. "Does that mean you accept my proposition?"

"Sure," he said, stroking her back, "if the price is right."

"Right, the price." A sly little smile touched her lips, and she batted her eyes intimately. "Well--"

"Uh-uh. Ya already mine, little elf" he said, pulling on her Zandalari piercing and making her squeak. "I won't be paying for something I already own."

Alarel cast her gaze down to the foreign crest stabbed through her navel, small and golden and flecked with the impression of green vines. Clearly she'd hoped to lower the price with her body, but she was, if nothing else, an experienced businesswoman. She wet her lips and looked him in the eye. "Twenty-five percent. That's more than I've ever paid anyone before. And you know I'm being honest."

Zar'gul grinned. "I appreciate that, but it ain't enough."

"It's a fair deal," she said. "I can't go any higher."

"Forget it, we'll discuss my monetary compensation later." He reached out and ran a hand through her hair, fisted her ponytail. "I've got another condition before I help ya."

She eyed him suspiciously. "And what would that be?"

"If ya want the help of the Cult of Blood, ya got to join the Cult of Blood."

For the first time since their conversation began, she looked truly surprised. "I'm not--I mean, I'm an elf. I can't join a troll religion."

"Sure ya can. And don't worry, I know ya a delicate little thing. There won't be any bloodletting or sacrifice for ya. Just a bit of praying like ya walked in on me doing. Some worshipping as well." He grinned and grabbed his crotch. "I know ya real good at that."

"That's it?" she asked, still suspicious. "No strange rituals or orgies? No drinking of blood? No fighting to the death or transforming into a panther?"

He assured her again that she'd only need to pray, as he'd done, before an idol, and she nodded her pretty blonde head. "Fine. I will join your cult, so long as we come to an agreement on splitting the profits. And as I said-- Oh!"

With her membership secured, Zar'gul cared not for further discussion of details. He grabbed the lusciously endowed elf and hoisted her up over his shoulder, carrying her like a hunter hauling away successfully hunted game.

"Again!" she cried, but humor tinged her voice, and she did not protest further.

Groping the abundantly round cheeks of her ass, he kept a possessive hand on her rump as he carried her to his private chambers.

"One of these days I'd like to thank ya mother for giving birth to ya," Zar'gul said, eyeing Alarel as she stripped and swayed before him.

She smiled faintly, but continued to dance, engrossed within the intricate pattern of her movement.

His private quarters were largely isolated from the rest of the crew, and upon arriving she'd become as docile as a kitten, obeying his instructions to strip without complaint. The dance, however, had been entirely her idea, and she performed it with sinuous expertise, emphasizing her figure with slow, sensual gyrations, displaying her curves in such a way that made it no wonder at all as to why the beauty of the Sin'dorei had become renowned worldwide.

Alarel Summercrown exemplified the beauty of her people to an unparalleled degree. She was a slender thing, but the massive pair of tits on her chest were far from lean. They jiggled while she moved, white and heavy and larger than life, topped by beautiful pink nipples that gave color to her pale elven body. What little clothing she'd worn had been discarded: her thong laid crumpled upon the wooden floor at the foot of the bed, whilst her exotic shoulder-piece rested beside it, its largely decorative purpose entirely unnecessary now as she bared herself naked and free before him. The mantelet she'd been wearing, a short, red thing made of a shiny brocade material, had fallen off somewhere out in the hallway.

The effect of her nakedness was compounded by every strut of her chest, every twist of her legs and swivel of her hips. Fully controlled and elegant in motion, she turned and swayed--slowly, languidly, idyllically--within a small, circular beam of sunlight from a single porthole atop the wall that framed her in a halo of brilliant luminosity.

He'd heard of the blood elves referred to as children of the sun before, and now, more than ever, he understood why. Alarel performed her strange elven dance as if infused with the light itself, somehow more brilliant than even before, her blonde hair shimmering and her pale skin so light and smooth she appeared as an ethereal being rather than a mere woman of earthly making.

Her eyes were closed, as if fully engrossed in a rhythm created by a kind of ancestral music that his ears, being foreign and alien to her kind, could not hear. But then her eyes opened, her rich lips parted ever-so-slightly, and her intimate gaze fell upon him, giving her dance a new quality of eroticism. More quickly, more sinuously, she undulated, her plump ass shaking with every gyration of her hips, her glowing green eyes fixated on him like a visual siren's call. She did not dance for much longer. Not even he could take much more of this.

"Come here," he said, and she stopped in one fluid motion of her beautiful body. Then, she turned towards him, and the way she walked was that of a woman with purpose. A confident, dignified woman who knew her worth. This contrast in poise made it even more exciting when she sat obediently in his lap, her body turned towards him, breathing heavy, lips parted in telltale desire.

When he touched her her skin burned lustfully, her eagerness to be bred clear in the way she felt, the way she sat, the way her long ears folded back against her head, the way she made a faint little noise when his hand grabbed and squeezed her tit. He grinned, thumbing at a hard nipple and the golden piercing that went through it. Small as the little elf was, her breasts were so large she could probably outproduce a cow for milk if she were pregnant. The thought both amused and aroused him.

Taking hold of her head with his other hand, he drew her face between his tusks and led her lips to his, the palm of his hand dwarfing her small elven head. She wriggled restlessly in his lap while he claimed her mouth by way of tongue, her arms grasping for him in a similar manner to which he held her, albeit with small, frail hands gripping toned muscles, reciprocating the kiss with a desperate sort of urgency.

An instinctual troll by nature, Zar'gul did not oppose her zealousness, and indulged himself fully in the joys of her nubile body, of her fat tits and full red lips, of her cushiony ass in his lap and her sweet womanly scent. Thumbing at one of her sensitive ears, he induced her to a state of near frenzy, as if she were on fire, her hot pussy trickling desire and her mouth groaning against his, restless as she kissed him.

Slipping his hand down from her head to her throat, he squeezed it with just enough force to get the point across: that he owned her, and that she liked that he owned her. Haughty as she'd been when they'd first met, she showed no such obstinacy now. Instead, Alarel purred and arched into him, as if she wanted to be choked even harder.

"Why don't ya show me how much ya want my help opening that brothel," he said, releasing his grip and running his fingers fondly through her pale golden hair.

"I'd love to," she purred, sliding onto her knees between his legs and reaching for his trousers. She tugged them off with some assistance by him, unleashing the pent-up monster within. His manhood burst free from its confinement as if from a prison, a huge, bulging, obsidian beast jutting up into the air; angry, hard as stone and ready to ravage a certain buxom elf.

Impatient to get underway, Alarel scooted closer and grabbed it with both hands. Wide-eyed and excited, she licked her lips at the same time she took hold of it, wearing her lust on her aristocratic face just as obviously as she wore red lipstick, and in only a few moments Zar'gul's recently freed manhood was being wholeheartedly devoured.

"Mmm," she moaned, involuntarily, while she took him into her maw. His fat cock parted her lips, stretched them wide, distorted her fair features, and slid smoothly over her tongue, trailing his musky, masculine flavor and reminding her not only of his immense girth, but the addictive taste of his Zandalari mojo. She shivered wickedly. The last time she'd sucked him off he'd provided her enough cream to satisfy breakfast.

Closing her eyes, she jerked his shaft between dainty elven hands, pausing with her lips sealed tight over a good quarter of his overall length, suckling on it like it was her favorite candy, her tongue dutifully servicing his hulking obsidian prick.

Thoroughly appeased, Zar'gul gazed down at the gorgeous elf kneeling between his legs. Alarel was far more feminine than the Zandalari women he'd laid with, soft and smooth, guileless in the way she attended to his needs. For her alone the decision to visit Silvermoon had been more profitable than any other venture he'd yet taken. He could not imagine that changing anytime soon.