Scoundrel's Answer Ch. 13

It was with silent, solemn efficiency that the remainder of the group made their way through the twisting halls and stone-paved tunnels. Faringalia remained out and limp in Alan's arms for a long time, while Windhawk took her place as torch bearer. Without Garthur's expertise, they had to move slow and careful, though at least Windhawk's keen senses still alerted them to potential ambush.

Alan was just utterly exhausted. Every muscle in his body was screaming for rest, yet still he continued onward. The oppressive feeling of the dark ruins lessened over time, as they made their way along, leaving that cursed church further in their wake. The dangers gradually diminished as well, the traps became less frequent, and although they stumbled across some true goblins on two occasions, the green skinned little beasts fled without challenge in both instances.

He had no idea how long he'd slept earlier, but it clearly wasn't enough. About the same time that the diminutive illusionist in his arms began to stir, he glanced over to Vick. Catching the big man in mid yawn made Alan feel a little better. He wasn't the only one feeling the effort of it all.

Alan slowed his pace, as did the others. He carefully set Faringalia down, just as she began to open her eyes. He offered a smile to the gnome woman, which was answered by a look of confusion.

"You saved us back there. What did you do, exactly?"

The little woman stretched, and ran a hand through her unkempt shock of red hair. "Mmm? Oh. I showed her what fear was. I mean if she could show you lot exactly what you desired, I figured that I could show her exactly what would terrify her most."

Alan frowned thoughtfully. His curiosity was definitely roused, "And dare I ask what that was?"

"I don't know," she said with a shrug, "I'm not privy to what they see, only to their reactions. I'm just glad it worked."

Vick laughed merrily, though his eyes still reflected the shock of the earlier battle. Cutting down a twisted monster or menacing bandit was one thing. Swinging at a creature wearing the face of the a loved one was a different matter, which Alan had the misfortune of finding out on two separate occasions the last few days.

"Alright," Alan finally turned to address them all. "We're near the exit, we're undoubtedly going to catch up with them shortly. I think we should stop and rest here, just for an hour or so. It'll be no use barging out upon them only to find ourselves too exhausted to fight." It was a tough decision, but he felt it was for the best.

There was no argument from the rest. It was likely they were all equally tired, except perhaps the unliving Daphne. It didn't take long to force open a nearby door, and slip into a room they could fortify just off the main hall. Daphne volunteered to keep watch and time, and for once, not even Windhawk objected. The air was still and stale, but after a few moments to let it circulate with the hall, it was almost tolerable. Stout stone walls and an almost equally sturdy door of ancient oak made the place seem secure. The room itself housed only a few dusty wooden crates, but upon examination, all were long empty.

Once settled down for their rest, Alan idly watched Daphne and Windhawk for a moment. The two women were watching each other suspiciously, but did not seem outwardly hostile. At least not for now. It did bring to mind the visage which the Lost Queen had taken when Windhawk attacked. There was a connection between the two elven women that he was clearly not privy to. At the very minimum, it had shown that Windhawk's 'greatest desire' had to do with a revived Daphne. He had never really had any insight to the reclusive ranger's desires through all those years. His eyes lingered on the lean archer as she peeked outside the room for one last quick check. Imaginings of her and the vampire entwined in passion brought a smirk to his lips.

She caught his gaze in the dying light of the flickering torch, then frowned at him, "What?"

He just shook his head and lay back, using his arms as a cushion. Windhawk tilted her head and scowled, then struck the torch she still bore to the ground. In an instant the room was plunged into darkness, as the flames died with a sputtering hiss. The creak of the heavy door closing followed soon after.

It did not take long for the exhausted rogue to drift off once more, nor for the dreams to return. He knew them for what they were now, though this time it was another glimpse of the past, rather than the present. Alan's old room in the Reavers' Rest was lit only by a single lamp upon his desk. While merry music and laughter in the commons could be heard even through the walls, Lightning Alan examined his latest take as it laid upon his desk, appraising a fascinating sapphire he had found by the light of that lamp. A velvet pouch lay open to one side, its burden of gold, silver, and jewels spread out on the smooth wooden surface.

A very soft knock sounded from the door, which he almost missed. Probably one of the tavern girls who'd been eying him over in the room below. They had, after all, just returned from a perilous task, and while Vick, Garthur, and even Windhawk were undoubtedly wasting no time in spending their coin on drink and merriment, he preferred to know exactly what he had beforehand. Still, some company would do him good, and a man had to enjoy his youth while he had it.

"Come on in," He called to the door, then placed that sapphire carefully aside.

As the door creaked open, he took the next gemstone up, and began to examine it. The soft patter of delicate feet and the rustling of long fabric confirmed a woman's entry, and no sooner did the door's closing mute the raucous sounds of celebration before he spoke in a tone that was a little more commanding than he intended, "Come along girl, I think I need a shoulder rub more than anything at the moment." He was still wound up from earlier in the day. Vick's recklessness had almost got them all killed, and he was pretty sure he was the only one who noticed. It was making him short tempered, and he didn't enjoy that.

He heard a sharp intake of breath behind him, as if she was about to protest his words. "Sorry, I just, I'm tense as a spring. It's not your fault." He took his eyes away from the gem he'd been carefully examining, then glanced down to the table. Sliding a few gold coins to one side, he tapped the table beside where they lay. "Show me how good your hands are, girl, and we can go from there." He sighed as he tossed the gem he'd been looking at into another pile, then reached to gather up a fine gold necklace.

There was more hesitation, but just before he was about to turn to see what was keeping her, those soft steps crept up behind him. It must have been one of the more modest wenches, as he could hear her skirt dragging the floor from time to time. Most tended to show a lot more leg than that allowed. He felt bad for snapping at her so, especially when those fine hands came to his shoulders. He lifted one hand to pat one of them reassuringly, and they began to rub at the tense muscles there through the loose fabric of his tunic.

She was no expert, but the way her hands worked against the tight knots along his shoulders seemed born of a genuine desire to see him relaxed. It felt marvelous, despite how chill her hands were. He closed his eyes and laid his head back, only to find himself resting against her bust. Not as generously endowed as some he preferred, but he could hardly complain.

"That's good. Thank you, girl," he sighed the words out, and let that necklace rest within one palm. Her hands worked up the side of his neck, cool and soft against his skin. They then slipped back down, this time under the fabric of his loosened shirt, kneading firmly, working the tension out.

"You've no idea what it's like," he murmured to the wench, "Working with them. Sure, we get things done, but damned if it's not harder than it should be. Vick's so damned quick to rush in. Garthur's always getting us into more trouble than we need with his insistence on fixing all the world's wrongs. Windhawk's just as bad." With a groan at how her hands worked upon him, He waved his hand absently, "The only other one with any sense in the group is Miena, and she's always too lost in her damned books to help."

Alan winced as the girl chose that moment to drill her thumbs in against a particularly tight group along his spine. He couldn't help a bit of a hiss, but just as he was about to complain, she drew him back against her breasts, and slid her hands back up to work at the nape of his neck. As the pain eased, he just set that necklace down amidst the rest of the gems on the table.

"Alright, that's enough," He tilted his head this way and that, grateful to be able to do so without the twinge of taut muscles. Her cool hands drew back from his skin reluctantly, and he lifted a hand to rub at the back of his own neck. She hadn't done a bad job, for one so unskilled. He heard her step away, back toward that door.

"Wait," Alan's voice brought her up short, and he waved his hand absently over one shoulder. She seemed so shy, having tended to him without saying a word, padding along in those long skirts. He slid another gold coin over to join the others he'd set aside for her. "Get that silly dress off and make yourself comfortable in the bed." A faint smile crossed his lips as he made the decision. She likely didn't get too many offers with that attitude. There was another long hesitation at his words, but finally he heard her footsteps move toward the bed, along with the rustling of fabric.

He gathered the rest of the coins and gems back into that bag. He could always start again later. For now, he just didn't want to leave them all scattered about, no matter how much he might trust the staff of the Reavers' Rest. He drew the drawstring tight as he heard the bed creak, then hung the bag from a peg. Sweeping the coins he'd set aside for the wench into one palm, the young man turned and stood.

The sight before him stopped him dead in his tracks. The few gold he'd gathered slipped from his hand, to cascade down onto the wooden floor. He stared in silence for a moment, eyes bugged out, jaw slack.

She reclined on the bed, her shoes off. Lean legs were clad in simple, opaque scarlet stockings, which hugged those limbs to mid thigh. Each was tied off with a black velvet ribbon. Her thighs were a little on the thin side, but utterly smooth, while a ruffled set of white drawers hugged her slender hips, stark contrast to the dark fabric of the loosened robe which lay spread underneath her. Her belly was flat and smooth, and about the dip of her navel was an intricate tattoo in glittering silvery ink.

It depicted a seven pointed star, each point radiating an arcane word outward. Her bared breasts were indeed modest, barely a handful each, with rosy nipples peaked. Between them dangled a talisman of protection, a simple strip of wood with glyphs burned into its surface, bound in a golden border. The gold necklace from which it dangled from circled her slender neck, while the robe itself was still cast haphazardly over her shoulders.

A smirk lingered on black painted lips, and the faintest of blushes lingered on her freckled cheeks. Her mad red locks cascaded down to frame those pale features, while her intense blue eyes stared at him through a somewhat oversized pair of spectacles. He didn't notice her holding the Nightmare Orb until she stretched languidly, then deliberately reached across to set it on his nightstand, beside his own dagger.

"Miena! I... I'm sorry, I thought you were-"

"One of your tavern whores?" She raised one brow, but didn't seem cross, "Or too lost in my damned books to be in here?" The last was deliberately taunting.

Alan approached the bed, and his eyes roamed over the mage's exposed form. "I- why are you here like this?" He decided the best defense was a good offense.

Apparently, Miena had figured the same way, for she lifted one hand to stroke over the slight curve of one breast. "What, isn't it obvious, Alan? You told me to." She then shifted to her hands and knees, and crawled across his bed toward him. She turned those blue eyes to his, peering over the tops of her own glasses. "What, don't like what you see?" Her voice had an edge of challenge to it.

"No- Er, I mean it's not that, it's just, you're one of us. One of my friends." He had never seen the quiet wizard woman so determined, so demanding before.

A slender hand slipped forth to curl long fingers about the waistband of his trousers. With a tug, the redhead drew him those few steps toward the bed, while her other hand lifted to play along one firm thigh. Her tongue darted across glistening black lips, drawing his attention as might the deepest pit, or a pitch, starless night sky. One by one, she unfastened the buttons of his fly.

"I may not be as buxom as one of your wenches, but I'm here, and I'm ready, and I want you. What are you, Alan? An old man?"

The question struck through his mind like a gong. An old man? Was he? He was only twenty, wasn't he? Lightning Alan's eyes drifted from intoxicating black lips to radiant blue eyes and back. Something was wrong. His gaze drifted to the Nightmare Orb, where it shone with a dark energy upon his night stand.

Any train of thought he might have had was shattered when one cool, almost chill hand slipped down to ease soft, dextrous fingers about his manhood. Although strange, her touch was not unpleasant. He gazed back down into those blue eyes, as she rose upon her knees. As her hand stroked his shaft to full arousal, her lips grew ever closer to his. She wasn't his first choice from a matter of preference, but it wasn't like she was some hideous monster. Miena was pretty, in her own bookish way. If anything, it was this new predatory manner that was making him hesitate. And he remembered she had been warmer to the touch.

Still, Alan Tinsley was a man, and not exactly the strongest willed one. His hands descended to her shoulders, stroking over her smooth, soft skin experimentally.

"You're mine, Alan Tinsley." She whispered the words, just before those slick, cool black lips met his own. She gave his length a squeeze, then pressed her body against his. Her nipples scraped against his chest through the thin fabric of his shirt, her free hand slipped to his hip, drawing him ever closer.

His eyes drifted back to the Nightmare Orb as it shone menacingly beside the bed. Its black surface seemed to take on a life of its own, as it had when he first laid eyes upon it in that jungle shrine.

When he first laid eyes upon that cursed orb, two years after that night at the inn. When Miena had torn into him for commanding her like some barmaid, blushing all the while, and then fled before he could ask why she had taken such a mistake quite so harshly.

It came crashing back to him. The Orb, the adventures thereafter, the destruction of the Startower, retirement, his wife. He began to pull away from Miena, and when his lips left hers, she hissed an inhuman hiss. Her grip upon his cock tightened painfully, and her other hand clawed at his hip.

"No! Damn it Alan, I was so close. You're mine!" Her voice raised into a sharp cry as he struggled to try to escape her grasp.

Another pair of arms he could not see slipped about him. He could feel another woman's form against his as he pushed the mage further away. This one was cool as well, but not nearly as icy as Miena's. Softer, yet stronger. Rounder, but with more muscle as well. Lips brushed his forehead, and the world began to slip from around his form.

"Alan. Alan, wake up." A soft voice whispered in his ear.

Alan's eyes shot open, but he could see nothing in the pitch darkness of the tunnels. His chest heaved as his heart raced. The only thing that kept him from darting upright was the lean weight of a leather clad figure above him. She was straddling his thighs, her body taut over him. Her breasts were soft against his chest as she leaned over him, even through the stiff leather that made up his armor, and hers alike. In the darkness, there was a soft sigh of relief, and gentle lips pressed a kiss near the corner of his mouth.

"I was so worried, Alan." Daphne's voice was quiet enough not to wake others, but still tinged with concern. "You were having a nightmare, weren't you? I could hear your heart pounding."

It was a strange world, where the feel of a vampire upon him in a pitch black room was reassuring. He nodded, his breath still quick, but gradually he relaxed beneath her. His hands sought blindly at her sides, and came to rest just above the curves of her hips.

"Yeah. Yeah I was," He didn't know how to explain it without sounding the fool.

Her lips caught his in the darkness, and though he at first stiffened, slowly he returned the kiss. It was gentle and lingering, not the demanding intensity he half expected from her. Her hands slipped up to tangle in his short hair, and slowly she broke the kiss. He felt her fangs drag teasingly at his lower lip, but without anything near the force to break skin.

For a moment, they lay there in silence, her form covering his own. He couldn't see a thing in the dark, so he just closed his eyes. He thought back on his dreams, then of an old tactic he had told Miena to use against a Baron they'd sought to overthrow, so long ago.

"She's going to torment me each night, keep me from getting rest."

"Who?" Daphne's voice was the barest of whispers, and the way her breath played over his lips, he could tell she was still close, even in the dark.

"Miena of Startower."

"Isn't she dead?"

"So are you."

The vampire scoffed. "Point taken." She then leaned to brush her lips against his one more time. "Alan Tinsley, I will not let her hurt you more, so long as there is movement left in my limbs."

He smiled despite himself. "You may not have a choice, Daphne. She's the one causing all this. There can be no other. She has great magic." He wasn't sure what he was going to tell the others. One of their own had turned against them, and one they had all mourned already.

"Then we'll just have to kill her again, before she can use it to do worse." With those words Daphne sat up upon his lap, only to pause.

He was certain he knew what caused it. Between the dream and the feel of the elven vampire atop him, his arousal strained against his snug trousers. With her shift in position, he had bumped right against her mound through her own tight leathers. Slowly, she rolled her hips. Her thighs parted further, as she ground down against his trapped member.

"Daph-"

His words were cut off by the press of one long nailed finger against his lips. She leaned down once more, and whispered into his ear, "Consider this my price for protecting you."

Her lips, and the tip of one fang, caught his earlobe. Slowly they dragged away, and she sat up again. Her weight left his form for a moment, but only a moment. He could hear the rustling of buckles and leather whispering against smooth skin. When he tried to sit up, however, her hand found his chest in the darkness, and pressed him back down.

"This isn't fair," Alan protested gently, "I can't see a thing."

"Good." Her voice came from much closer to his ear than he thought she'd be, and he nearly jumped. The hand at his chest dragged downward, scraping along his belly through his leather jerkin, then down toward his trousers. Buttons came undone one by one under her deft fingers, and for the second time in that brief period, a cool, slender hand slipped in to fish out his erection. This hand, however, was most definitely real, and she began to stroke his length from base to head.

The old rogue parted his lips to protest, but found only the soft press of the vampire woman's against his own. She kissed him soundly, tongue seeking his, and in the darkness she shifted over him again. He could feel her cool, slick folds teasing back and forth against the tip of his raging arousal, and a soft groan rose from his throat.