Queen Yavara: Epilogue

I looked down from the top window of our mountaintop monastery, and surveyed all the figures around the many bonfires below. Hundreds of hybrid hermaphrodites, women, and a few pure-dark males were dancing, drinking and fucking in the waning sunlight. Ten generations of my descendants were down there, either children of my womb or children of my seed, all engaging in the wonderfully taboo lust of incest. There seemed to be no ill effects on the children born of hybrid incest, for I had lain with my children, grandchildren, great grandchildren and so forth, and had made children with them, and they had made children with each other, and all of those children were as keen and athletic as I ever was. Some were adventurous, and wandered off on their own, usually to Drastin or Hektinar. Terondia, the capital of the elven empire here on Balamora, was too conservative for my children's liking. Though the elves here came in many different shades and sizes, they all equally disdained the lustful nature of the hybrids, and so we did not make our home there. So our growing family set down roots in Drastin, where every race and color was welcome, and where the laws were few; and the orc empire, where the laws were many, but where we were treated with reverence for the ancient orc blood that ran in our veins. After a few hundred years, Soraya and I still felt like eternal guests in other people's lands, so we made our own land. And though the mountain peaks could be treacherous, and the cold could be brutal in the winter, it was unmistakably ours. Our little Alkandra. Not the Alkandra Leveria had made, but the one Adrianna and I had built half a millennium ago.

"Furia?" Soraya asked, and molded her front to my back, "Will it just be us tonight?"

I reached behind me to run my hands through her fine hair, and bring her lips over my shoulder to kiss my turned face. "Just us sounds nice for a change. Sometimes the clean-up of an orgy isn't worth the fun."

"Blasphemy." Soraya giggled, and kissed the nape of my neck. She rubbed my pregnancy bump, then let her hands wander to my crotch. "What's that letter you were reading?" She asked as she pulled out my hard cock, and stroked me from behind.

I flicked the marijuana spliff out the window, and opened the letter on the table. "It's from Leveria." I groaned as Soraya's deft fingers touched me expertly.

"Leveria?" Soraya mused, "We haven't heard from her for a hundred years. How are things back in Tenvalia?"

"Yavara started another civil war," I sighed, "looks like she got Elena on her side this time. God, that's the fifth one. You wonder why Leveria puts up with her?"

"I don't," Soraya giggled as she massaged my aching organ, "I know exactly why Leveria puts up with it, I know exactly why Elena goes along with it, and I know exactly why Yavara starts it."

"Not everything is about sex."

Soraya scoffed. "They're just like us, Furia. Everything is about sex. These high-casualty civil wars are just... dedicated roleplaying fetishes."

"Bad luck to all the poor bastards who get killed over it."

She sighed, and snuggled further into me, creating a bed of supple flesh against my back. "Who cares about the little people, Elena?" She whispered, "They're ants."

"We're all just ants." I muttered, looking out at the vastness of the manmade mountain range. A lone valkyrie flew over the Iona peak, then descended into the jagged dark silhouette of the mountainside.

"You're thinking about the ones we left behind." Soraya murmured, "You're always like this when we get one of Leveria's damn letters."

"I was just wondering what they'd think about all this."

"They'd love it, Furia. We did good."

I nodded, and smiled. "Yes, we did."

End of Epilogue.

End of Queen Yavara.

Author's note

Thank you all for reading Queen Yavara. It was often a battle to write, but I hope it was a filthy joy to read. This was my first ever foray into erotic writing that was originally started back in May 2017. I've put it down, given up, restarted, and rewritten this entire series. It has been a labor of love and hate, but I think in the end that it was mostly the former for me. The characters you read are little pieces of my psyche that I spin out and evolve, and even I don't know what they'll do. I let them tell the story for me, and I tried my damndest to remain truthful to them.

You may have noticed that the story gradually changed focus as it went along. It started as Yavara's story, then became Prestira's story, then became Elena's, then became Adrianna's, and lastly became Leveria's. Of all these characters, the titular Yavara was the most difficult for me to write. When coming up with the idea that she had been forced into an identity that was not her own, I wanted to avoid pigeonholing her into a dichotomy of personality, as that would just make her seem bipolar, and make Leveria's big reveal rather obvious. While every other character had unique traits and motivations that made them very easy to write, Yavara's motivations could never be set in stone, for she herself was never certain of them. Did she want power? Perhaps, but not to the extent that Zander pushed her to grasp it. Did she want love? Yes, but whose? Everyone's?! Is she good? Is she evil? Is she just a shallow slut? This was the greatest challenge of writing this story, and I hope I succeeded; I can't really say. I know what I intended to convey to you, but ultimately, the story is yours to interpret as you please. By writing down a thought, it no longer becomes my own, and so I hope that you created from this story, something worth your time.

Now, because I can't help myself, I'm going to be a little mean to you.

If you have gotten this far, I can only assume you've read every word of every chapter of this long and twisted story. Upon finishing this author's note, Queen Yavara is now a story of 783,407 words. To give you some perspective, that is 280 more words than the King James bible. The entire Lord of the Rings series—including the Hobbit—is 576,459 words. Atlas Shrugged is 561,996 words. War and Peace is 561,304 words. His Dark Materials trilogy is 390,575 words. Les Misérables is 655,478 words. Jean Christophe is 610,000 words.

You could've read an entire semester's worth of literary masterpieces with the time you spent reading this cheap smut. You could've broadened your horizons and cultured yourself with great works from great human minds, but you instead decided to read over three-quarters of a million words of misspelled dreck, half of which was repetitive anal sex. And for that, I am eternally grateful, you depraved little bunnies.

With much love,

E.L. Whitewall.