Drow's Dilemma Ep. 144: Warned

"From the darkness born

A new soul does mourn."

Ornia pointed down another passage.

It was the only communication he was going to get, in his experience. "I will go down there and see, then."

See what, exactly, was the question. If he took her words at face value, there was something down there. A creature born of the darkness. Something interesting and not dangerous, judging by how they were treating it. But why would a new soul mourn? He considered the question as he sauntered down the hallway.

The passage sloped rapidly down, then spilled out into the largest cavern Ornia had ever built. If she had built it. It was likely that she had just discovered it. But while not anything like the enormous caverns of Old Duskhaven, it was a couple of acres in size. Crystals, subtly glowing and reflecting light, glittered on the ceiling far above, and a small river poured out of a waterfall on the wall and flowed into a lake before winding away into the darkness. A forest of glowing mushrooms and other strange fungi covered much of the cavern floor, with a lot of insects and amphibians that Tsabdrin was familiar with from his life in the Underdark.

Really, it was like the most lovely gardens he had visited back home.

As well as the familiar sounds of water, croaking, and buzzing, Tsabdrin heard a muffled noise of weeping coming from the center of the cave. It was a familiar sound, though the last time he had heard it must have been a century ago. When he was a ranger in the Underdark with Ashyr, they heard those weeping noises and fled immediately before encountering the creature they knew would immediately blind them. Lampads were considered extremely dangerous creatures in the Underdark.

His nymphs, however, didn't seem at all concerned. Perhaps it would have been dangerous to meet a deep nymph all those decades ago. Now, Tsabdrin was certain he could handle it.

Ugh. This meant another nymph to live with, didn't it.

Putting that thought from his head, he followed the echoing noises of mourning - oh, of course, that was what Ornia meant by 'a new soul does mourn.' That left no doubt in the drow's mind of who he was about to meet.

Arriving at the lake in the center of the cavern, he found exactly what he expected. There, sitting on a rock next to the water with a massive fungal umbrella looking over her, was a beautiful woman with skin as pale as the underside of a mushroom and long hair as dark as an unlit cavern. She was no larger than Ashyr, with a similar build but the blinding beauty of a nymph. Looking at her unprotected did not blind Tsabdrin due to the protection his nymph lovers had put on him; but it did fill him with an unexplained feeling of deep melancholy and wistful longing for... something.

However near he drew, the Lampad did not look up at him, continuing to bury her head in her arms and weep.

Tsabdrin knelt in front of her, a look of curiosity on his face. He had always wondered what a Lampad was like after hearing that first one weep. In his dreams that he had a few nights after the near encounter, she had a beautiful form, but a horrifying face that devoured him whole. That was due to the stories his older brothers told him when he was a child. He fully expected this one in front of him to be beautiful head-to-toe. It was interesting how small she was compared to what he was used to.

"Hello," he said softly, not sure what else to say. He felt weird staring at a crying lady without talking to her.

Finally, in response to his words, the Lampad looked up at him with familiar scarlet eyes, and what he saw made his heart lurch.

She looked like Ashyr, but pale, and supernaturally lovely. Memories of his time with her crowded his mind.

"First there was nothing but the Void, and then I am here. And I feel so lost, sad, and alone!" the Lampad lamented, her voice as similar to a perfected Ashyr as the rest of her. "Why did existence pull me out of the comforting Void? Why do I feel anything? Why do I feel so... melancholy." The last bit was not a question.

None of it could have been a coincidence. There was something supernatural that made her look like his first partner. Perhaps another male would see a different female. Nymphs, of course, spawned in places of such extreme beauty that Fairie touched that spot and coalesced into a new soul. That was how Tsabdrin understood it. So... this one in front of him spawned because Ornia was beautifying the place.

Tsabdrin knew that there was more to the lampad than excessive beauty. The corners of his eyes narrowed slightly in pain. Somehow, his discontent had given birth to a forever mournful Ashyr lookalike. But she wasn't and would never be Ashyr. This one wouldn't have her cocky, naughty grin. This one would be forever sad and forever make his heart hurt to look at.

Were the goddesses punishing him? He could almost hear their indignant voices echoing in his mind: "How dare you not be content with the gifts We had so generously given to you?"

Perhaps that was dramatic. Perhaps all this melancholy and drama were what put him in this mess, to begin with. Apparently, he needed to get over himself and be happy with what he had.

Tsabdrin caressed the Lampad's perfectly muscled calf, hoping that she enjoyed the physical contact like any of his other nymphs. He then spoke to her in a calming, soft tone. "I am sorry. Perhaps you will feel better if you know your surroundings better? I am Tsabdrin. I am the Consort here. Do you have a name?"

"Tsabdrin... Tsabdrin..." the Lampad murmured. Suddenly, a strange light came into her eyes. "Oh! Oh! You... you are the one! Tsabdrin of Duskhaven! It is you! Your grief that I feel!" She reached out and put a hand on his face very gently, tears rolling down her face. "I... I understand your regrets. Your sadness. Your loss." The tears streamed freely from her eyes, but her gaze was fixed strongly on him with an expression of deep sympathy. "Your feelings gave form to me," she told him, a sad, sad smile on her heartbreakingly lovely face. "I know everything you go through. It is hard, isn't it? So hard. No one understands... the feeling of soft moss, of lost love, of children betrayed, of cruel brothers and cold sisters... it is all too much, isn't it? Too... too much."

His eyes misted over and would not clear no matter how many times he blinked. "Every drow has gone through these troubles," he told her in a carefully controlled voice. "Males even more so. We are beaten for not performing as we should. We are raped. Our children are turned against us. Or worse, are killed with carelessness or outright murder. There are cities of males who understand. It is not something to dwell on."

It was something to mash deep in a hole somewhere and bury with unhealthy coping mechanisms. Like aching for a time of innocence and a woman who had moved on a century ago until a creature of sadness that looks just like her manifests.

He rested his head on the lampad's knees to hide his flowing tears. Perhaps it was the lampad, perhaps he was really that weak, but it was a monumental struggle to keep himself from blubbering like a baby.

"There are many with grief like yours," the Lampad whispered. "But my grief is yours. Your regrets made me, gave me form." She ran her hand gently across his hair.

"What am I supposed to do about that?" he asked softly. She looked like Ashyr. It made him want to do anything - everything - for her. But another part of him burned with resentment towards the fates or goddesses or whatever made this situation. This was a very cruel trick.

The Lampad shook her head mournfully. "I do not know what can be done," she said in a soft voice. "I... do not know anything except your melancholy. I know how to speak. How to walk. How to swim. How to cloak myself in darkness. And how to feel. That is all I know. I only came into being one thousand one hundred ninety-three heartbeats ago."

"Do you have a name? Or do you wish to be named?" Tsabdrin asked. He couldn't stop his eyes from crying. Why couldn't he stop crying? It was a struggle even to talk now.

"I don't know about any names, but those you associate with grief," the Lampad replied. "But those names will not do to refer to me by, will they?"

"No," Tsabdrin agreed. "What do you think would be appropriate? Something to do with caves? Underground forests? Or, perhaps you would prefer the nymphs here to name you? They would know."

"If you need a name for me, then give it to me in whatever way you see fit," the Lampad said, staring at him with a curious intensity. She still seemed as melancholic as ever, but the supernatural fervor of her sadness had focused entirely on Tsabdrin himself.

He shut his eyes tightly in thought and let out a shaky breath. "There is a luminescent moss that grows in the Underdark. It is soft and glows pale in the darkness. In old elven, it was called Schistostega... something. It was a while ago that I studied Underdark flora. We can feminize the word to... Schistea? What do you think of that? Ugh, maybe I should consult the other nymphs; you are too young to know and I have no confidence in my naming abilities."

Even while entirely focused on naming, the tears would not stop flowing down his cheeks. He was on the verge of sobbing at every moment. This couldn't have been natural. "Um. Do you have an aura of sadness? Do you know how to suppress it?"

The Lampad looked concerned. "Moss is a good name for one such as I," she began. "Soft, and damp, gloomy, yet comforting. Schistea I will therefore be. But I do not know what this aura is that you speak of, nor how to turn it off." She began stroking his face and hair again. "Are not tears the natural result of coming face to face with your grief and regret? Why should they merely be from some aura?"

Tsabdrin struggled to reply, struggled to decide what to do. He needed to get away from this crushing sadness or he would be trapped under it forever. It felt... wrong to leave her, though. A woman who looked so sad who looked so much like Ashyr...

"My grief and regret... I have spilled too many tears on already. I know how to escape it. Here, with you, I cannot. There must be an aura," he tried to explain.

"Perhaps there is," Schistea replied. "For on you, I smell the scent of four others of my kind, though mixed with stoic stone and giggling water rather than with melancholy darkness. If they have auras, then I suppose I must as well. But I do not understand this aura. Nor do I understand why you wish to escape your grief and regret. How can you escape what is already inside you? How can you run from what you carry?"

"Where I come from, that's a good way to get killed," Tsabdrin said bitterly. "I can't focus on anything. I can't think! This is... you should talk to one of the nymphs. I'll- I'll go get her," he said as he struggled to stand. His arm repeatedly came up to wipe the dampness from his face, but it was a futile gesture.

After his second failure to stand, Schistea pulled him further into her grasp. All of the nymphs were strong. The Naiads were as strong as a flowing river. The Oreads were as strong as the bones of the earth itself. And Schistea the Lampad... the Lampad was as strong as deep grief long left unresolved. Strong, but gentle. "You do not need to think," she whispered. "Just cry. Weep. Grieve. Right now it does not matter why you feel it: only that you do. Let it all out." Her fingers began to tug on his clothing. "Moss is best felt against the bare skin," she whispered. "And tears are best shed in sympathetic arms."

Tsabdrin chuckled through the low sounds of grief that began to slip out now and then. There was no doubt that she was a nymph just like her oread and naiad sisters: it always ended in stripping. He found that he didn't mind so much. It probably had something to do with Schistea's appearance. Tsabdrin rarely turned Ashyr down, though her libido tended to exceed his.

So he complied and began helping the lampad pull his clothes off. He had to do it mostly by feel; his damn eyes were forever clouded in a haze of tears. He responded to her in a thick voice, hoping that she could understand. "Maybe for a while. I have a feeling I won't be able to stop until you figure out your aura."

The Lampad undressed him, pressing more and more of herself against him as his charcoal flesh was revealed. Her skin was soft and warm, and her face and figure were hauntingly similar to Ashyr's own. And unlike the other nymphs, who towered over him in size, Schistea was barely larger, only as large as a small drow female. But where Ashyr's flesh was as coal dark as Tsabdrin's own, the Lampad's fingers were strikingly pale. Her nipples were the only real bit of color on her nearly white flesh: tiny rosy buds. Her hair was also completely unlike Ashyr's: unbraided, unbound, seeming to be spun out of the darkness, and so long and flowing so that it was difficult to see how long it was, for it stretched into the cavern and blurred into what not even a drow's darkvision could sense.

But the biggest difference between her and Ashyr was in how very, very gentle the Lampad was. The other nymphs had been gentle in comparison to the drow. They never struck him, or pinched, or twisted, or intentionally caused any pain. But Schistea made even her sister nymphs seem rough. Her touch was as delicate and soft as it was insistent and inexorable. Not that he had any hope of resisting her. Her caresses, so far comforting and non-sexual, drained his ability to resist. When she moved him, he moved, no matter how little force she exerted.

Soon, Tsabdrin was naked. Schistea gave a gentle, affectionate kiss on his cheek, pressing her breasts tightly against his back as her hand clasped him to her. Her nipples were rapidly hardening. "Why... why do I feel so strange..." she murmured, confused arousal starting to thicken her voice. "I feel... slick. Hot dew is flowing from between my legs..."

"What?" Tsabdrin asked, not understanding for a moment. He was doing as she asked, after all, and not fighting his regret. Her aura -- his was certain it existed -- didn't give him much choice. "Oh. You-" he swallowed awkwardly. She knew what grief and sadness and regret was, but didn't know about arousal, pleasure, and sex?

"Your body wishes to couple with me," the drow managed to say after spending great effort to get his wits together. It was then that he noticed his hands gently caressing her legs. His cock was half-hard, ready to leap into action; he expected Schistea to already be riding him at that point. Tsabdrin didn't expect to have to teach her. "I can- can show you how if..."

If he could do something other than sob. He did not like this aura of tragedy.

"Couple?" the Lampad asked. "Is that what you did with Ashyr, your lost love? Would coupling with me help you with that?"

"It might give me completely different complexes..." Tsabdrin muttered, rallying against the grief for a moment. "That is what I did with her," he confirmed a bit more loudly. "I... don't know if it's a good idea to... I don't know."

"Maybe... maybe it will help me control this Aura," Schistea speculated, a familiar nymphen tone entering her voice. "Your skin against mine just feels so... so good." She squeezed him again, and the overpowering nature of her aura lowered a bit. "Tell me, Tsabdrin. What did this Ashyr do to you?"

Perhaps she was right. Perhaps that was how nymphs were able to suppress themselves. Tsabdrin didn't know for sure, but his body was heating up to the point where he didn't care too much. "It's something we did together when our bodies began to change. You must have noticed that your body is different than mine. Ashyr and I explored those differences... extensively."

"I am different than you because I am Nymph and you are not," the Lampad murmured. "I am spawned from darkness and grief, appearing fully formed where deep regret meets beautiful melancholy in unstained shadow. My body does not change. Sharp blades do not fell me, spells do not slay me. I am not laid weak by disease nor want. I need not food, drink, nor air. Vaporize my physical body, and I appear unharmed in darkly sparkling caverns. My life once begun, ends only when my Goddess Aelsuna, who calls me from the darkness to mourn the unending injustice of this sad, beautiful world, finally calls me up to her bosom where She shall wipe away the tears that I have shed for all the pain and loss that makes the pleasure and joy worthwhile. You are an elf. While he may live many centuries, will be felled at last by his weakness and mortality. Of course our bodies are different. Far, far more different than that of a bat darting through the stalactites is from a glowing mushroom anchored to the stone below. And yet..." she laid another wet kiss on his jawline, shivering with a lust of familiar power. The lust that birthed the term 'Nymphomaniac'. "And yet, you feel amazing against me. It is a soft, sharp longing such as I -- spawned in dull pain and tears held back by hearts pretending to be strong as unfeeling stone yet more delicate than the quivering blossoms glowing faintly beneath the rocks of this cavern -- could not have imagined. What is this desire I feel? You feel it too, but not for me."

Tsabdrin blinked. He found that he could finally rein himself back in to merely having leaky eyes rather than openly sobbing. Her reflection on the nature of their differences must have distracted her from the misery she dwelt upon. Her answer to his question was... excessive, though.

"Er, I meant outwards differences, Schistea," he told her. "Males and Females. What you are feeling is arousal. You are correct; I also feel it. But... there has only ever been one woman who I've wanted to couple with. At first because she was the only one around. And then because she was the only one who treated me well. And then because I taught myself to focus on pleasure with her when I was being mistreated by others... And now because I've ingrained the idea that pleasure can only come from her."

Now he was giving more complicated answers than necessary. Schistea was forcing him to analyze his past trauma, apparently. Now it wasn't her aura of sadness that was making his tears flow so freely.

"You have only wanted one woman, who no longer wants you," Schistea said, her eyes tearing up again. "That is so sad! You want a woman who loves another, and you see the women who want you as overbearing burdens." Her voice had taken on a different tenor: the words seeming to flow not from her, but from Someone Else. "The pure love of young Naiads, and the deep affection of ancient Oreads, all seen by you as inconveniences to be borne instead of blessings to be enjoyed. Wealth and love greater than what the vast majority of mortals could ever dare to imagine, and you see it all as unwelcome. Why? Why do you hate the blessings of Aelsuna so?"

Aelsuna. This was now very clearly her doing. He was moping around feeling sorry for himself which offended the Goddess who, on the surface of things, gave him a very generous gift that any male should have been delighted to receive.

"I do not hate the blessings I have been given," Tsabdrin responded with a tired sigh, assuming that Aelsuna could hear him. "I simply struggle to relate to them all. They are so kind and soft... but it is so hard." He shut his eyes against the wave of emotion that was entirely his own crashed over him. "I can't explain it. We speak a different language, the nymphs and I. The same words, different languages. I know they thrive on sex, but... sometimes -- even though they're so soft and gentle -- something they do reminds me of things that had been done. My conditioning triggers and..."

He shuddered, pulled himself back in, and stamped down the feelings. "I just wanted a partner. Someone whose libido I could handle. Someone I don't have to hide from to feel safe. You expect too much from me."