Etched in Mythral Ch. 01byAugustClearwing©
While this story contains elements of sex, it is first and foremost a work of fiction with a plot that does not *revolve* around sexual activity. Not all chapters will contain sex. If you are looking for a quick fix then you have come to the wrong place. If you want an ongoing fantasy series that you can dive into plot-wise as well as erotically then welcome!
Of all the sins in the world, Stephan Roeaux favored lust the most. The runner up to lust was gluttony, though the two were never mutually exclusive. By point in fact, he rather enjoyed both of them simultaneously and in great abundance. Each woman he took to his bed was different than the last. Their skin tones ranged from sweet cream to toffee, their bodies from starlet dancers to full figured housewives and everything flavor in between.
Stephan himself was no dockworker. He did not boast the chiseled features of a skyslag from continuously hoisting and twisting the sails of airships, but he was no plump bench-warming politician, either. Someplace in the middle was where Stephan settled into being. It was where he was comfortably attractive to the women of all shapes and sizes. Not too old, not too young, well groomed and comfortable in his own skin. The way he carried himself, his charisma and sure-headedness was what won the ladies over in the end more often than his looks. The width of his bankroll did not serve to deter the ladies of the pleasure houses, however. And when he rode into town with his entourage he would always go out of his way to treat his men to the finest time they could ever hope to have.
It was a rare woman who would not submit to his charms, yet he still frequented the pleasure houses more often than he took the time to woo a woman in a local tavern quite simply because it proved to be less time consuming while on business and when he paid for a woman they were obliged to do what he wished of them.
These things were well known to the woman who bedded him that night. She was an exotic and unexpected surprise for him; not a woman that he had ever noticed in the brothel before now. But when he had entered the small, warm bedchamber on the second floor he did not turn the nude lady away. Instead, he slipped out of his jacket, shirt, trousers and boots—all of which were still damp from the summer rains earlier that afternoon—and into the warm bath she had been preparing for him.
Candles dotted the space, the yellow wax melting and dripping down the front of the mantles atop the layers of previously spent lights. Heavy brocade curtains of deep red hung across the windows. Equally tinted satin bed sheets and a thin summer quilt beckoned patronage. He could only imagine how soft the pillows would be, that is if his head did not rest against the breast of his female companion once her task was complete.
"My tastes are simple tonight," Stephan told the doxy. He rolled his head around to crack his neck as he acclimated himself to the warmth of the water. "So just refresh and relax me before I leave in the morning."
The elven woman lowered her gaze in obedience but never said a word, only crouched behind him outside the tub and ran her long, soap covered fingers over his chest and neck, washing away the grime of two days' journey into the capital from his flesh. He breathed easier then, and loosened a bit more against the lip of the tub in the center of the room.
When he was satisfied, he exited the tub and waited until she patted him dry before joining her on the canopy bed. She was not too thin, at least not as thin as most elves typically were. Stephan avoided elven women on principal only because they were so light and frail that he feared he would break them in bed. This one, however, held her weight evenly with wide hips, a smaller chest and skin the color of desert sand.
The elf straddled him on the edge of the bed, all of her weight distributed evenly on either side of him, her body merely brushing his. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders. Sharp fingernails worked themselves in delicate, pointed strokes down the nape of his neck and spine while moist lips tended to his collarbone until she felt him grow between her legs.
"Kneel and service me," he told her. His voice was barely above a whisper, but commanded with an aching vigor.
At this her lips tugged upwards into a mischievous leer. She slid her feet to the floor, her body following into a kneeling position in front of him; both a position of submission and a position of concentrated power. Large jade eyes looked up into his for approval and Stephan could only swallow audibly as she wrapped her fingers around the only eight inches of muscle that he ever cared he exercise. Soon to follow were those same wet lips that were kissing him moments ago. He stiffened further.
It was in this moment that Stephan decided that he would have to request elven women more often, if for nothing else then the way this one's tongue worked at him. Stephan inched closer to the edge of the bed and wove his fingers around the long black mess of hair she kept pinned in a loose bun.
The woman never moved her head, never made the noisy, sloppy sounds of the sex workers that he had grown accustom to. She stayed still and silent, the only motion being her tongue against his hardened flesh. He gripped her hair tighter, his own animalistic sounds too inherent to keep at bay, until she finished him and he doubled over into a quivering mass of heavy breathing, sweat and pheromones.
The elf laughed coquettishly as she disentangled his fingers from her thick hair and rejoined him on the bed. She knelt behind him, massaging aching muscles and hot blood pumping through his neck and shoulders. Expertly, she grasped the sharp, ornate pin in her hair and released the feathery mass of black. It fell around her face, allowing it to tickle the sensitive skin of his back.
Stephan shuddered at the touch of her hair, still glowing in the aftereffects of his first course of the night. He lifted his head slightly. "And just where have you been all my life, you beautiful harlot?"
She adjusted herself behind him and glided her right arm around his shoulders, the long, thick hairpin draped between her fingers. Her voice was barely a whisper, though each word was articulated pointedly his ear. "Training to kill you." And before the full meaning of the statement could be registered, or a movement made to delay the inevitable, Santi forced his head forward and slid her arm out from its position. The hairpin's edge coasted across his throat, deep and swift and clean.
Dark red splashed over the floorboards. Stephan's body followed, slumping into a heap while his heart pumped liter after liter of blood through his jugular into the air. When he attempted to call out for help he gurgled and spat and more red filled his mouth and vision.
Santi stayed until his twitching stopped. She wiped one speck of blood from the back of her hand before gathering her clothes from beneath the bed. She donned the matte leather pants, high collared forest green bodice and bracers. She slipped into her knee high boots and collected her hair back into the loose bun she previously displayed.
Typical man, she thought, too selfish to give as good as he gets.
And then Santi was gone, slithering out the second story window and into the mists of summer night.
The air was hot and muggy as heavy rain subsided into the morning. Fog began to mix with the charcoal smoke billowing from the factory district. It poured into the red lantern district and left a dusty layer over everything it touched.
There was still plenty of time until dawn; until the shield of darkness lifted. Santi would be far from the scene by then. She would slip back into the Assassin's Guild and wash off the grime of another client. She checked the streets below for any passersby before jumping from the terrace and onto the vines which covered the bricks of the buildings. She splashed through a series of puddles and down the street.
Just as Mags had promised, her horse was waiting. He was tied to a nondescript light pole in a back alley. Through the drizzle Santi saw Mags herself, a short redheaded woman as skilled with a blade as Santi, come out of the shadows to greet her. Her attire consisted of a similar trend as the elf's, though tonight Mags was wearing a more constraining wardrobe with layers of skirts and a corset one size too small to display a healthy supply of cleavage. All the more places for her to hide her sharp pointy objects, she would reason.
"How'd it go?" She was more chipper than usual. It was a trait Santi found both endearing and vexatious for someone of their collective profession.
Santi untied the horse and threw the reigns around its neck. "He called me a harlot and failed to reciprocate." She shrugged. "I'm afraid the relationship just wasn't meant to be."
Mags gave a theatrical frown, her bottom lip poking out to accentuate the point. "Aw, that's a shame. There's always next time, I guess."
The elf boosted herself into the saddle. "I'm headed out. I need to bathe in sin that doesn't belong to a client. Are you coming?"
"Nah, I've got a thing. Catch up later. Oh, and before I forget," Mags fished a sealed letter from the top of her corset. "Shar wanted me to deliver this to you. Some high profile client, she said. All very hush-hush."
Mr. Roeaux was Santi's second client that week. That was rare in itself. But now a third was pushing it. She had been looking forward to a much required break. "Motherless son of a—" she plucked the letter from Mags' fingers and broke the wax seal. It was indeed a summons.
"You're taking me with you, right?" Mags presented her companion with her most winning smile. "This is me, your wing woman." Santi glared at her. Mags' pursed her lips. "I brought you the damned horse!"
"Fine," Santi waved it off and gave a swift kick to her mount. "Seven Blades at sundown. If you're late you get left."
"You can count on me," Mags shouted after her as she galloped away on the muddy street.