Dormitory Demonic

A flaming aperture splits the sky, and from that molten portal comes Dornathon, screaming like a shooting star, belched from the cloaca of the universe. The air warps around him, rippling his flesh, buffeting his brain, bulging his eyes from their sockets. He is a comet, a celestial body falling to earth. Around and above him, stars define the night sky, and clouds burst apart at his passing.

He's free!

Behind him, echoing from the portal, comes a voice which rings like a bell, clear and musical, which says:

"Dornathon! My Dornathon! I will have you back!"

But he's not going back. Not to be Lu'Urna's plaything. Never again.

Then, as he breaks through the clouds and sees the sweep of a city far below him, red-roofed buildings with windows lit by countless lamps, he begins to feel rather apprehensive. The crennelated tower of a manor house far below seems to stretch ominously towards him like a soldier's pike, and he thinks: Oh, fuck me.

There is an astounding crash, a brief, intense feeling of terrific pain, and then nothing.

~

When Dornathon wakes again - and to be clear, he is surprised even to be awake - he is abominably sore all over and yet enveloped in a downy softness. The loveliest face he's ever seen is looking down at him. He's struck by a pair of blue eyes, wide and naive, and the richly tanned features they anchor. An adorable button nose, pink lips curling in a curious frown, golden tresses hanging like stage curtains around the entire affair. It's enough to make Dornathon think he's died and crossed over to paradise, except that he knows what will happen when he dies, and it will be much less pleasant than this.

So: "Gods above, I'm alive," he croaks.

The young woman laughs, a sound like tinkling crystal, and already he's falling for her. That's his trouble, though: he falls for all the pretty faces, and they fall for him.

"I don't understand you, but I'm glad you're alright," she says, in the common tongue.

He realizes he's spoken in the Old Tongue, his language, and that she probably doesn't understand it. It's easy to forget that they use the vernacular on this side, and so many versions of it. He hasn't spoken common in a long time, but he gives it a try:

"All right," he repeats. "Yes. More or less."

"Oh! You speak our language. That makes things easier."

She gives him a happy smile, and he melts into the cushions. Goodbye Lu'Urna, hello sweet savior.

"We were surprised you lived," says the girl. Her voice is high and sweet. "You made a calamitous sound when you broke through the roof."

She points upward, and Dornathon's eyes follow the finger to a hole in the timbers where he can see night sky peeking through. He's lying in a pile of expensive-feeling cushions, in some kind of attic, likely on the top floor of that house that tried to kill him.

"Sorry about the roof," he manages. "I am Dornathon. Could such a thing as a cup of water be had?"

The girl startles, like he's reminded her of something, and she dashes out of the attic, footsteps clomping softly on the stairs. In a moment she's back with a pitcher of water and cup. It's cold and feels tremendous on his parched throat. He's downed two glasses before he knows it. He feels a little better. Still like a fucking house fell on him, but he'll live. A human would've died for sure, but he's not human, after all.

"I'm Leni," says the girl, a belated introduction. "It's nice to meet you, Dornathon."

"Dorn, please," he says. "We're friends now, eh?"

He gives her the rakish smile, the finely-honed one that works so well, and she blushes. Leni's wearing a loose-fitting blouse, beneath which the outline of teardrop-shaped breasts are clearly visible, and trousers which hug her hips rather tightly.

"Would it be impertinent," says Leni, "to ask how you came here? And, as a follow-up, about the color of your skin?"

"Ah," says Dornathon with a knowing nod. "I wondered when we'd come to that."

His skin, he is happy to admit, is a nice soft purplish-red, which he would go so far as to call fuschia in places, a complement to his dark purple eyes. His ears are pointed and angled back, away from his head, as if to poke someone standing behind him. Once he even had a tail - but of course, it's long gone, now, he recalls with a pang of sadness. Dornathon's clothes were torn to ribbons by the strain of crashing between worlds, and evidently no one has bothered to dress him, so there's nothing to hide his torso, well-defined and dotted with dark, coarse hair. He's rather proud of it, of course. So, given all this, it's no wonder Leni should have questions.

"You'll forgive me if I answer the second question first," says Dornathon, falling back into the vernacular, remembering the joy of contractions and idioms. "As to my skin: you've probably caught on to the fact that I'm not from this plane - Angrael - but from the one opposite - Fal'Angrael. The Realm of Soul. You understand?"

"The Other Place," says Leni with a nod. "So you are an Elder of the Soulkin?"

Dornathon can't help a barking laugh. "Oh, my, no. No. You flatter me. To become an Elder one must be... well, old."

"How old?" asks Leni, and he can tell she's inquisitive, like a sheltered child who thirsts for more. In his experience, such creatures are easy to manipulate.

"Very old," replies Dornathon. "Older than me. And you have to have a certain standing. I'm what you might call a... well, a drude, perhaps. Older and wiser than some. But no Elder. Their kind, I stand below." Or used to. But no more.

He takes a drink, admiring her restraint, though he can see other questions bubbling beneath the placid surface of her tanned skin.

"As to your first question: I came here by way of escape. There was a... prison, let us say. Velvet handcuffs. An Elder held me in captivity, for entirely capricious reasons. They can be very fickle, you see. With patience and cunning I effected my exit, and yet in my haste to leave I could not predict exactly where I would land. Where am I, anyway?"

"Sworza," answers Leni. "In a manor-house, which is rented as a dormitory by students at the Academy. Of which I am one, you see."

"Ah! A woman of letters. How charming." She blushes again, and Dornathon marvels at how easy this is all going to be. "And there are others here?"

"Three others," says Leni.

"Women or men?" asks Dornathon, trying to keep his tone indifferent.

"It's a women's dormitory. For those of noble birth, or at least wealth. The Proctors of the Academy have long judged it proper for male and female students to domicile separately, to avoid certain distractions from their studies."

"Of course," says Dornathon, nodding soberly at the sage wisdom of this notion. "Now, I wonder: have I alarmed your flatmates with my arrival - and perhaps alerted certain authorities?"

"Oh, certainly not," says Leni with a shake of her head. "The girls all saw you when you crashed in, and left me to watch over you while you slept. As for authorities, well, this is Sworza in summertime. There's enough crime in Lowtown to keep their eyes off the skies. If anyone saw you, they'd be knocking on our door by now."

"Ah," says Dornathon with a nod. "Tremendous. Leni, darling, would it be a stupendous burden if I asked your leave to rest in this attic for a night or two? Only while I recover my strength, you see."

"Not at all!" exclaims Leni, a bright smile cracking her lovely features. "The girls and I discussed it, actually, and we agreed that, should you require time for convalescence, it would be our pleasure to host you."

"You're an angel," says Dornathon with a sigh, reclining into his cushions. He can't believe his good fortune. Four young women of means and a manor-house in Sworza at his disposal. From Lu'Urna's foul clutches to the lap of luxury. Would wonders never cease? He stretches and yawns terrifically, as all the effort of breaking into the material world catches up to him. A great weariness settles over his bones.

"One last question before I rest," he says. "Did you happen to find a... token of some description, amongst my tattered clothes?

"Do you mean this?" asks Leni, producing from a small box nearby the thing in question. It is a small cubic device, filled with intricate clockwork. It appears to be lustrous bronze, though it is not bronze. The gears stand motionless, having been drained of their power when Dornathon opened the world-breach.

"You were clutching it in your hand. We assumed it must be of some importance."

"It is," he agrees. "A keepsake of my homeland, quite useless now I'm afraid. But still, it comforts me to have it close by."

Easy lies. To him, they always come easy. It's one of his talents.

Leni returns the object and leaves him to rest, promising to return in the morning with food. Dornathon feigns sleep. It takes great effort to merely feign sleep, given how tired he is. But when he's sure Leni's gone, he examines the tiny Soul Engine, desperately searching for any signs of damage, turning it over and over in his hands. Mercifully, it appears unharmed. These things were built to last, after all, by artisans much wiser than himself. Lovingly, he strokes it, his key to freedom, his vehicle to wherever he wants to go. Depleted as it is, it lacks the power to travel, and he's too bruised and sore to do much about that just now.

But soon enough, he thinks. Soon enough.

~

The next day, Leni comes to wake him, bearing a tray replete with bacon, cheese, bread, and fruit. There's a flagon of wine to drink, and even a pot of honey for the bread. As he gobbles down the bounty, she tells him about herself. She's Athaleni Arneze, from Sworza, born and raised, which explains her tan skin. Her father's a merchant on the cusp of nobility. Leni, third child of five, is the only daughter. Her tuition to the Academy, and the renting of her room at the manor, is paid by her father as an investment towards Leni's chances of meeting, and marrying, some pompous lordling with an important father.

When Dornathon asks her how she feels about her father's plans, she shrugs indifferently. Leni is studious, he gathers, and bright, if a bit naive. She enjoys the Academy, is devoted to studying classical art, and is quite enamored with her life here in the manor. Her flatmates are the sisters she's never had. They eat together, attend classes, share clothes, stay up late drinking too much wine (for they live privately, with no Proctors to intrude on their revelries, a perk of having wealthy families). Leni would like it to stay like this forever. Here he detects a sore spot - he has the impression that life beyond the Academy is in question, dependent upon forces not entirely within her control.

After breakfast, Dornathon meets the household. He feigns a limp - always good to appear weaker than one is - as Leni leads him downstairs. On the second floor, beside Leni's own room, lives Aerlet Clery, from Saltea. Her mother, sister to the Sealord of Saltea himself, sent her to the Academy for a worldly education. Saltea is the best place in the world for learning the trades of shipbuilding, navigating, warehousing, and piracy (this last most of all), but for more academic pursuits, her homeland is sadly lacking.

Aerlet has rich olive skin and thick dark hair that falls in long, unruly waves down to her backside. She has a penchant for green, to match her eyes, and wears an emerald dress studded with pearls. There is a flamboyant streak to her, an impish gleam in her eye. A swooping neckline shows acres of smooth bronze skin and the sides of pendulous breasts. Dornathon wonders if she attends lectures dressed like this. If so, he envies her professors.

She's clinically curious about Dornathon, who provides evasive, mysterious answers. Aerlet's studies tend toward the medical and biological. He is obliged to promise her an opportunity for a closer examination in the near future. Then Leni drags him away, a scolding note in her voice as they bid Aerlet good morning.

On the first floor they find the room of Gresta va Latria, from Maruba in the frozen north. She's made the long trek south to temperate Sworza on the behest of her father, Baron Latria, an upjumped soldier who won his title in Maruba's recent war of succession. Gresta, his only child, was sent abroad to be the first member of their family to attend the Academy. It is a matter of some pride for her illiterate father, but also, it seems, a matter of safety. Maruba, ever at war either with itself or with the Yornish barbarians, is a perilous land, and the Baron fears for his daughter's safety, should his sudden fortunes see a sudden reversal.

Gresta is a strikingly handsome woman, tall and broad of shoulder. Her wild red hair curls like flame, held in check by a complicated series of pins and clips. The Maruban woman's face is anchored by piercing dark eyes. Her cheeks are lightly freckled, her nose aquiline, her chin dimpled. Thin and practically dressed, Gresta is a serious woman who smiles rarely, giving curt, polite answers to Dornathon's questions. As they leave her to her studies, Leni assures him that Gresta is a caring soul deep down, but this is just how people are up north.

Beside Gresta on the ground floor lives Sadelia, who is known by one name only, as is the custom in her native Angheg. Leni can say little of her family, or her heritage, for Anheggish custom dictates implacable secrecy about such matters. In fact, Sadelia does not even bother to grace them with her presence, but only calls a clipped greeting through the door. The mystery woman is actually quite agreeable when she appears, Leni confides. But Angheg is a land of gloomy castles and endless intrigues. It is quite possible that Sadelia is not even her real name. Dornathon feels vaguely uneasy outside the woman's door, and is grateful to move on.

~

Leni and the others attend lectures until sundown. Dornathon passes the time watching the city of Sworza through the attic window. It's a town of artisans and academics, of stained glass windows and red-tiled roofs. The Lorca river bisects Sworza on its way to the Southern Sea. Here, on the western side's hill, is the Academy, the Hall of Magistrates, and the homes of the wealthy. There, on the eastern bank, accessed by five nearly identical bridges of arching white stone, is Lowtown, a warren of winding alleys, ramshackle houses, and one of the most successful criminal organizations in the history of Angrael.

Dornathon munches on an apple and muses on his good fortune to have crashed into a manor of wealthy, nubile young women, instead of into the den of professional killers.

He spends a great deal of time staring closely at the Soul Engine and wondering if its gears had moved, ever so slightly. Perhaps it was simply his hopeful imagination.

Leni returns home that evening and joins him in the attic for supper. She's procured it from a local public house, knowing that it was best for a Soulkin like Dornathon to remain indoors. He was more amiable and well-mannered than some of his kind, but nevertheless, a Soulkin walking abroad in Angrael would attract the kind of attention he preferred to avoid.

Using a crate for a table, they dine on roasted pheasant and some kind of noodle-based dish in a cream sauce. Dornathon's never had such a thing before, but he eats it with relish. They also finish a bottle of rich wine, so dark red it's almost black, and are opening a second when Leni says:

"So just how different is a Soulkin from a human?"

"That's an interesting question," replied Dornathon. "I thought Aerlet was the anatomically-minded one?"

Leni blushes. "Well, she may have put the question in my head. But you're the first Soulkin I've ever met, Dorn. Please. Indulge me."

He chuckles. "Well, since you asked so sweetly, I'll tell you. It's an interesting question because there are so many varieties of Soulkin, as you term us. We are as varied as the creatures of your own realm's lands and seas and skies. There are the crude galla, little more than animals, really, but useful in their way. There are drudes like me, who think and reason and amuse ourselves as we can. We are not so different from humans, save in our appearance. Then there are those we serve, the Elders, the ancient ones, the Dukes of Fal'Angrael, who are not to be trifled with. And lastly, above all, the exalted, the radiants, the eternals - the gods."

"Have you met a god?" asks Leni breathlessly.

"Met? No. Seen? Once or twice. Pray you never do likewise, for they are terrible to behold. But this is an ominous topic. You were asking of our differences, yes?"

"Yes," agrees Leni, scooting closer so she can refill his glass. Her tan hand brushes the fuchsia skin of his arm. He can smell her hair, a faint aroma of lavender. "I can see you have two eyes, and two ears, and a nose."

"Correct so far."

"Five fingers?"

Dornathon holds up his hand to prove it. Leni presses her own smaller, human palm against his, soft pink against rich purplish-red.

"Some have more, some have less," says Dornathon. "But most have this many."

"Teeth?" asks Leni. Her voice is a barely above a whisper, and she's fixed his eyes with those wide, innocent blues.

"Thirty-five," says Dornathon, opening wide to show them off. "It used to be more, but I lost one."

"That's more than me," says Leni, opening her mouth likewise. She has a fine set of pearly whites, and Dornathon quite likes the look of her jaw gaping wide.

"Satisfied?" asks Dornathon.

"Not yet," says Leni. "Further investigation required."

She places a hand on his chest, feeling his heart beating quickly. It trails down past his navel, down even further, and then, oh yes, she grasps the growing bulge between his legs.

"I had to be sure," she explains. "Now let me get a closer look."

They undress in a flurry, tumbling into the cushions of Dornathon's makeshift bed. The roof still gapes where he crashed through, moonlight gleaming through. Her loose, flowing blouse comes off first, and he wastes no time suckling the pink flesh of her nipple, feeling it harden under his tongue. He goes to work on her tight trousers, pausing to squeeze the flesh of her pert arse. Meanwhile she's pushing his borrowed shirt up his chest and undoing his own set of trousers. Leni moans happily when he gets her breeches open at last and plunges two fingers into her damp sex.

Leni's keyed up already, so Dornathon puts all his talents to work. Love is his element, and he plays her like a musician. He bites gently at her nipple, his thumb working her clit, his fingers curling in her sex, his other hand massaging the soft globes of her ass. Leni comes hard and fast for him, shuddering and hugging his head, near smothering him with her ripe tits. Her thighs clamp down on his hand, and she grinds her hips desperately, deliriously.

When she's finished, she collapses in a heap on the pillows, panting. Sweat's begun to bead on her perfect skin. Dornathon finishes undressing himself, letting her admire his body. He knows he's handsome. Oh, gods above, he knows it. Is he a vainglorious drude? No, far from it. It's simply an acknowledgment of manifest reality. Muscular, fit, well-groomed, all of these things describe Dornathon, not to mention a noble chin, an expressive brow, a stubble of dark hair on his cheeks, and deep purple eyes which more than one maiden has gotten lost in. And his cock - don't bother telling him, he knows it's pretty, even when soft. Erect, it's magnificent, long and girthy, purple skin darkening to a deep red at the tip.