The Apostate Ch. 06

Behind them, Valshar and Lirafey were faring much better, the priestess cracking skulls with her mace while Valshar slashed with sword and sorcery, shocking, freezing, and burning anything her arcane blade touched. Shandra worked her magic as quickly as she could, Myrynda assisting with what divine spells she could muster to bless her new allies, unbinding Vath and Cyra first, the two throwing themselves with ferocity at their captors. Lidia came next, followed by Iliara, and the three lent the scene an appraising eye.

"There are too many," Iliara said, and Shandra agreed.

"Hammer, down," Lidia barked, marching up behind the warrior and his lover. Her eyes blazed with fury, wings spread wide, and her jaw seemed to unhinge. Her horns grew longer, teeth and eyes sharpening to points as draconic fury blossomed from her gullet. A wave of violet, arcane force lashed out in waves, crackling and sizzling as the telekinetic blast sent a dozen drow warriors reeling backward, bones broken by the force.

But it was not enough. Warriors accompanied by kobold fodder entered the fray behind their fallen comrades, but this time they did not charge, sending the reptilian wretches to their doom as Hammer and Lura cut them down.

"Pull back!" Iliara said to Lira, Valshar, and Cyra, who had joined them, naked and burning with rage, quite literally. They backpedaled as the drow pushed them cautiously, while Hammer, Lura, and Lidia pushed forward. The exit was this way, and they knew that if they didn't focus on one direction, they would be swallowed up in short order. So Hammer and Lidia broke through the kobolds, charging down the hallway, leaving Lura to skewer any kobolds that survived the wave of fury.

Drow retreated, firing crossbow bolts laced with insidious sleeping poison. Lura focused her divine magic on keeping Hammer from falling asleep mid-battle, knowing well that Lidia's draconic blood would prove hearty against that poison, at least for a time.

Then they were in a massive courtyard, faerie fire limning the stalagmite buttresses and walkways all around. An eerie, lavender glow bathed the courtyard, and it wasn't until they looked to the front gate of the massive Mourlefey castle that they realized where they were.

Moreover, three Matron Mothers were there waiting for them: Matrons Mourlefey, Torviir, and Baensek. They were each flanked by a half-dozen of their most potent children: Mourlefey's priestesses, Baensek's warriors, and Torviir's daughters, so impeccably beautiful as to be divine creations themselves.

And Lura and her companions knew doom, surely, at that point, as a magical web descended upon them all. Not Cyra's fires, nor Lidia's telekinetic breath, could dislodge them. Matron Torviir's eyes settled on Lura and Myrynda almost immediately, and the webs seemed to be obeying her unspoken commands as they drew the Torviir sisters toward their mother and sisters. Iliara cried out for them, the rest crying out simply in frustration, ready to fight to the death rather than be enslaved by these drow.

The webs began eating at Myrynda's clothing, but Lura's proved more resilient. The Sune-blessed garments burned away webbing with holy fire, and soon Lura was free, scowling at her mother. Matron Torviir seemed nonplussed about the defeat of her webs, but didn't show it in any way other than a scowl.

As Lura stood tall, a purple mist began swirling up through the stones, swirling slowly around the entire courtyard. Lura paid it no heed, confident that Sune's protection would guard her from whatever nefarious magic was coalescing around them all. She spared worry for her friends, but in this dire situation, she figured this was the end of their road. They would all face it standing tall, she was certain, despite the webbing.

"My daughter," Matron Torviir said, smiling again as she stepped forward, her hand caressing Lura's cheek. Then, surprisingly, she kissed the Chosen of Sune, their lips lingering together for a long while before Lura pulled away. Indeed, the memory of her mother's kiss almost made her quiver, almost made her stay. But she resisted the charm—magical, no doubt—and put her hand to the holy symbol on her breast. Crimson and white light poured from it, repulsing the drow surrounding her, but only momentarily.

"Take her to the altar," Torviir spat at Nhil, Myrynda's former teacher and lover, whose eyes were on the youngest Torviir the entire time. Nhil marched forward, but stopped as the ground began to shake.

"What sorcery!" Matron Baensek said, for truly, none of her fellows had cast such a powerful dweomer. The violet mist, which they had all dismissed as a harmless work from the other side, began to spin forcefully, whipping about as it rose up higher, forming a great spiraling column. It began flaying skin in small flecks from some of the less-magically-protected drow, but stung the captives not at all.

But the roar—the terrible roar!—surely shook the stones greater than anything any of them had witnessed. The mist formed razor sharp blades, whipping about with an intelligence that belied its source—the massive, ancient, spectral violet dragon standing over the captives. Its talons were longer than the tallest drow in attendance, its teeth like greatswords—but only those a giant would wield!—and its horns made the stalactites above it seem diminutive. The flaying mist dissipated, leaving dozens of drow laying in pools of their own gore, strewn about in a great spiral around the captive surfacers.

Then the dragon materialized, taking solid form and lunging forward. Her head snapped down, swallowing Matron Mourlefey whole. Her screams could be heard even as she descended the dragon's gullet, coming to a horrific, gargling end within the great horned beast's belly.

"NONE SHALL POSSESS A DRAGONSTONE!"she roared, her voice grating and melodic all at once. Matron Torviir looked up in abject terror while Matron Baensek and her warriors soiled themselves. More than one drow retched in terror. Then, in the blink of an eye, the dragon began shapeshifting, skin and wings and horns and bones crunching and twisting into the shape of a scale-armored woman with resplendent raven hair, iridescent scales protecting her thighs, breasts, hips, and arms. Her fingernails were long violet talons, and her eyes were slitted, golden orbs, and her breath smelled of pure arcane force.

Alluva Lovedrake stood above her friends, towering over them at nearly twenty feet.

Her magic took form, heralded by deafening popping sounds.

Then they were gone, and Matron Baensek slid her rapier into Matron Torviir's back, skewering her heart. Her warriors incapacitated her beautiful daughters, leaving them crumpled on the ground.

House Torviir and House Mourlefey were hers.

"Thank you, Alluva," the "drow" said.

A perceptive eye would have seen the golden slit flashing over her irises, would have smelled the draconic breath oozing from her mouth at that particular moment.

*****

Alluva was on her knees, gasping for breath, but not in the way any of them might have expected. Fire was in her eyes, burning bright golden flames of passion. She was of normal stature—at least, by her companions' perception—rather than the giant form she took in Menzoberranzan. She stood quickly, her scales and skin glimmering in the dusklight of Neverwinter Wood. Arching her back, spreading wings that materialized at will, and raising her arms over her head, breasts pointing up to the sky, she let out an exultant shout of pure delight.

"By Bahamut, I haven't had that muchfunin ages!"

"Mother?" Lidia said, her voice breaking a little as she reached out to Alluva's face. "You live?"

"I do, dear daughter!" she said, reaching for Lidia and pulling her in tight, arms and wings wrapping around her daughter's trembling form. Cyra stood there too, and Alluva gathered her up in her embrace.

"But the dragonstone," Cyra said leadingly.

"Yes, abhorrent things!" she said, twirling away and taking in all their gazes. "But a dragon such as I does not live so long without being prepared forallcontingencies. I sensed the stone before the drow even thought to use it against me! Foolish girl!" She laughed, almost hysterically, and the sound devolved into mad giggling. "I had a contingency spell in place. Yes, it hurt, and I certainly suffered greatly at the stone's power, but a mere drow could not slay one such as I!"

She turned her head, lifting some of her dark hair away to reveal deep scarification on her skin. "The stone blasted away much of my flesh, but not enough that my enchantments and contingencies couldn't knit me back together. It will be a tenday before the scars dissipate, but it is a small price to pay. After all, I'm here with you all again!"

"And for that we are grateful," Lura said, moving in to embrace the ancient dragon in woman form. Alluva returned the embrace, hugging the drow tightly.

*****

Weeks passed after their escape from the Underdark, Lura and Hammer reunited with Iliara and Cyra, with Iliara and Myrynda joining their merry band. Vath returned to the wilderness, hunting and trapping and slaking her thirst for violence on animals and errant bandits as a lone, axe-wielding wanderer. She returned to Neverwinter occasionally, meeting up with her friends for food, drink, and, of course, sex. Alluva had flown off shortly after their return, seeking some sort of home to deposit her hoard once and for all, her elven concubine with her.

Lira and Shandra had moved to Luskan, seeking out the rumored drow influence over the city. They hadn't heard much from the duo until a tenday later, when Shandra had cast a magical sending, conveying their success and that they missed the companions they had travelled the Underdark with. With an open invitation to visit whenever they desired, Lura and Hammer were content knowing their companions—if not friends—were content in their lives now.

After many weeks of simply enjoying each other's company in privacy, the man and drow had begun experiencing changes quite profound.

"Hammer," Lura breathed, straddling his lap, her hands in his hair. She kissed his freshly shaven face, feeling the soft skin against her lips and purring in delight. She lower her hips, feeling his shaft spear her again. She'd been riding him since dusk, and the night was on in full now. He held her gently, arms wrapping far enough that he could hold her soft hips, squeezing them firmly as her large breasts pressed against his broad chest.

He felt her stomach brush against his hard, lightly-haired stomach, and he looked down at the swell in her stomach. The drow, pregnant, looked down as well, her swollen belly sensitive as it pressed against him. She was barely showing at this point, but the rest of her body had thickened slightly, most noticeably around her arms, thighs, and breasts. Hammer reveled in her physical changes, and the way that her pregnant body seemed to glow, especially in the moonlight...

He pulled her face to his, kissing her deeply as his seed erupted in a fountain, again, filling her loins with his warmth. He fell backward on their bed, a grand piece of furniture in a well-to-do manor in the Blacklake District, and Lura fell atop him, almost immediately rolling off his side so that her pregnant belly didn't discomfort either of them. She curled up, hand between her thighs, rubbing her swollen, aching pussy to soothe it, rather than stimulate. His cum nestled inside her, she started humming, drifting away into sleepfulness.

"The First Minister did something to me," Hammer said to her, before she could fall asleep. She arched her brow against his shoulder. He felt it, and knew it was a non-verbal request for him to elaborate. "When first we arrived, he blessed me. I think with Chauntea's fertility, or something like that. He made a point to mention my virility."

"Are you saying this child is a gift from the gods?" Lura asked. A question like that sounded incredulous to most people, but to Hammer and Lura, who had seen the gods work so much, had to wonder...

"I know not," he said. "But I do believe we conceived in that extraplanar realm. Perhaps it was the magic of the place...perhaps it was Chauntea, the Red Knight, and Sune, working as one for our favor."

"What shall we name him?" Lura asked.

"Him?" Hammer said, almost sitting up right away.

"If it is a male," Lura said, and Hammer relaxed, smiling as he pondered.

"A question for another day," he said, holding his wife—and they had made that bond official upon their return to Neverwinter—close to him. He drew the soft cotton covers over them, turned to face his drow wife, and held her naked body against his own, her face to his chest, as they fell asleep.

*****

Myrynda sat with her legs dangling off the side of the earthmote bearing the Moonstone Mask. By Lura and Cyra's suggestion, the young drow priestess sought the matron of the glorified brothel, but to no avail. Her kind were not uncommon here, not as much as she would have thought, but apparently she was not going to gain an audience within the walls of that den of debauchery.

"Well enough," she said, laying back in the grass, her dense robe wrapped tight about her. Despite the name of the city, she was chilly in this late autumn night, and watched with wonder as her breath misted above her face. The stars winked at her, calling to her, and she felt her soul answering that call. It was in that moment that she knew she was meant to be on the surface, to live under the stars, despite that immense, blazing, cursed thing called a sun.

"I am alone," she said, all of a sudden, and felt truly lonely for the first time in her entire life. Surely, her beloved sister was there, as were her sister's cohorts, but they had their own lives, and Luriia—or Lura,whatever!—was soon to be bogged down with a pregnant belly. She wondered at the wisdom of birthing a child, but wasn't so nihilistic and cynical to think it a folly in any way. Truly, she was looking forward to being the half-elf's favorite aunt!

But she had nobody else. She certainly didn't have her siblings in Menzoberranzan. She had no "group" like her sister. And that grieved her. Sitting up, the young priestess took stock of herself and her belongings. She hadn't been able to pack before leaving, obviously. She only had travelling gear, and that only enough for a day's hike.

No weapon, no armor to speak of, other than her robe, and no holy symbol—nor, really, a goddess to call her own. She had thought Sune her patron deity, but since leaving the Underdark, none of her magic was working. She received no spells from anybody. Perhaps Lolth wouldn't be so quick to let her daughter go, she thought mournfully.

For the first time in her relatively short life, Myrynda Torviir knew not what she would do with her life. She felt...empty. As though the ambitions and intrigues of drow society had filled a hole that she never knew existed. She wondered, now, if she would be able to use her expertise in that matter to weave a web of intrigue in Neverwinter. Over the course of weeks, she'd heard whispers of a massive dwarf army rolling toward Neverwinter, likely with their end-game set on Gauntlgrym, where one of the high-ranking Menzoberranyr Houses had set up a small fiefdom. She knew turning to those drow was a lost cause at this point.

She had no real desire to be among her own kind anymore anyway. Her heart was not so dark and deceitful as that, though she didn't figure she would be above slitting a few human throats to get her way on the surface.

Sighing, feeling wholly lost in this new world, Myrynda stood and simply walked off the ledge of the earthmote. She free-fell for several heartbeats before touching her House insignia, activating the levitation enchantment so that she could alight on the ground gently, rolling from toe to heal to absorb impact. Many startled eyes turned her way, but she was immune to them, all but ignoring them entirely.

But she hadn't gone too far before feeling eyes on her back that were a bit more intent. She hurried down the avenue, its name unknown to her. Her feet moved quickly, with typical elven grace, and once she felt she'd gained enough ground, she ducked into a dark alley, melding with the darkness almost completely. It was, after all, her home.

And what a welcome home it was, she realized. The darkness swallowed her up, caressed her as a lover, coaxing its cool, dark tendrils into her most sensitive areas. Indeed, hallucination or not, she felt the cool caresses and almost let out an audible moan of pleasure as she relaxed, nearly completely.

"Welcome home," a dark, silky voice said to her, one that seduced her ears and melted her mind into a red haze of desire.

But she had survived decades among the insidious, wicked drow, and not without internal alarms like the ones ringing within her skull now. Her eyes went wide, her body twisting deftly as her hands spun around, shoving away tendrils of shadow that were alltooreal. She realized there was a man standing at the mouth of the alleyway, eyes glowing white from his shadowed façade. She backed away, tripping over refuse, but he smiled—she knew he smiled, because his white teeth were too pearly to be contained in the darkness.

"Welcome home, child," he said again, but the voice was behind her. She sprinted out of the alley, lunging past the unmoving figure and crashing into the brick wall across the way. Looking back, Myrynda saw nothing, and realized the alleyway was not so dark as she had thought. Gasping for breath, she closed her eyes and relaxed.

But within her closed eyes, she saw a disc of black, rimmed in silver, and her hands suddenly had something cold as ice within them, circular and sharp around the edges. She knew this symbol, the symbol of Mask, god of thieves. Her mind rebelled against the thought that the god of thieves would try and push her into his service, and nearly threw the disc to the ground. But, arm cocked back, understanding dawned on her.

"Shadows," she said to herself, watching as the alleyway's darkness seemed to roil before her. "Shar?"

"No," the same silky voice said to her. She turned to look to her right, the source of the voice. But nothing was there. "And no, I will not reveal myself to you. My divinity is too great for your weak heart. Your guts would spill out of your mouth."

"What would you have of me?" she asked, holding the cold disc so tightly that its sharp edge bit into her flesh a little.

"Simply serve me. I have a temple here, Mask's Bounty," he said. "Too simple a name, I should think, but its proprietor isn't so creative. Currently, it is a whorehouse masquerading as a bathhouse. I don't disapprove, but I'd like it to be...something more. You will do that."

"How?" she asked.

"Surprise me," he said, and his laughter bounced off the inside of her head. She reeled from the sound of his laughter, and she felt, for a moment, the oppressiveness of his divinity bearing down on her. She was pressed against the wall, and thought she felt something entering her loins. It was cool, but not unpleasant, and she even reveled in the sensation, her orgasm shuddering through her quickly.

Then, it was all gone, leaving her alone, nose and ears bleeding from the power of Mask's presence. She shuddered, vomited against the wall, and grinned. "Mask," she said, holding the black symbol in her hand. She stared at it—or rather, into it, as though the blackness was swallowing up everything into an endless void. Her mind opened, like a yawning chasm, and power flowed into it. Suddenly, the directionless drow rogue had purpose. Myrynda laughed aloud, and people that had not previously been there stared at her in fear. She ignored them, and marched to where she—somehow—knew Mask's Bounty was.