The Feud Ch. 03

Thelise let go of her fears, and as she released them into the false night, she found herself free to move once again. The creature was still an aggressor, but Thelise was submissive, and she received Linevere into her mouth, simultaneously using her own to dance and battle with her wicked guest. Mirroring her energy, the high elf reached down, pulling her robe up from her knees and higher still, beyond the midpoint of her thighs. She discarded her thoughts of repulsion like dead weight. Riding on the sown feelings of attraction for the felspawned woman, she touched herself for the succubus. Her legs spread further, allowing her cotton panties to dampen and the scent of her sex to fill what little space remained between them.

It was a risk; Thelise had no idea what raw, invited sexual energy would do to a creature that was constantly starved for it, but she could not spend any longer suffocating against the demon's tongue. She knew that those who swim against the current only die exhausted. Her middle fingertip dripped down over her undergarments and slid back up against her lips, pushing against the hood of her clit before falling down again with another finger to accompany it. Every gentle exertion of pressure caused the succubus to retreat from the kiss. Linevere broke away at last and looked down.

It was working. Thelise began masturbating, lifting her hips and using her spare, now freed, hand to pull aside her panties. The sight alone was more than enough to draw the demoness off of her— she reached for Thelise's panties and tore at them, an experience that wasn't entirely painless, but lest Linevere suspect resistance and pin her down again, she kept discomfort to herself. The priestess was fully exposed, vulnerable, and the succubus' inhuman tongue was made visible yet again. Linevere licked her own lips as she descended upon Thelise's womanhood, letting her tongue whip around and lash directly over the hood of her clit.

Thelise shuddered and buckled. Another lick, another lash, as the succubus began to test the elf with her fingers. It was unprecedented generosity, as she had half-expected the monster to pierce her body with its talon-esque nails, and she was grateful for every moment of hesitation. It gave her just enough time to run her fingers through her new lover's jet black hair. The succubus' tongue grew increasingly active, moving, turning, spiraling much faster over her clit, taking Thelise to otherworldly heights. Thelise began to emit a quiet howl of ecstasy, but as she grasped tightly onto Linevere's horns, all that she felt was righteous conviction.

A quick twist was all it took.

Linevere crumpled to the ground, drained of life and beauty. Before her broken corpse stood Thelise, partially disrobed, panting heavily, her eyes narrowed in funneled fury and boring into Victor. He took little notice. Victor was beside himself with arousal, and the flames around the room served well to illuminate what was aching to escape his trousers. It was not merely the torches on the wall that shined on them now, but the fire from his destructive sorcery. It went without question that he had caused Thelise to fail the test, but it was the furthest thing from his mind now, and as Thelise lashed out at him with holy fire, it became obvious it was the furthest from hers.

From beneath his own robes, a burst of searing white flame scalded him. Bright smoke pillared toward the ceiling. Victor lost his footing, but hid his pain, knowing himself to be tougher than this in any case— even when caught off-guard. Still, he was stopped, and the burning lingered for several long, tense moments of silence... Then he pressed forward. Thelise smote him with another wave of holy magic, and another, another, but Victor did not fight back, nor did he want to. Something about her had captured his attention, and his field of vision grew small.

Thelise's hood had been removed, and her hair had been cut into asymmetric bob, but though these attributes were hardly unusual, it was something else that drew him in. Victor advanced through her assault, his armor singed and his exposed flesh seared by bursts of light energy. Soon he rounded upon the priestess, and before she readied another blast of holy fire, he grabbed the elf by the wrist and yanked her into him.

"No, NO!" Thelise shouted, but she did not use any more of her spells to drive him away. "What happened to you, Thelise?"

And all at once, she became still. Thelise did not hide, turn away, nor even direct her gaze to the ground with shame, but instead looked Victor dead in the face, eye-to-tearful eye, and stood silent and resolute for a time.

"What happened?" she replied. "What happened... was that a brash, heartless... despicably cruel, and above all pathetic excuse for a man intruded upon my room some time ago! And when a lady—when a person was exposed and at their most vulnerable, instead of consoling them and taking his leave, this man took it upon himself to relieve himself upon her and leave her with this!"

She opened her palm and with a word, a glowing bubble of light appeared in her palm. Holding it up to her face, Victor saw that her eyes, which had both once shimmered and glowed cerulean like small moonwells, were now a ghost of that. One was blue, the other partially green, both whelmed with tears that brimmed at the corners. Strangely, the discoloration appeared to be seeping in from the direction of her cheek, turquoise tendrils stretching around her iris like pollution. "You happened."

"... I don't understand."

"Of course you wouldn't! But fortunately, I haven't come down here to seek your understanding. I've—"

"What is this?" he laughed.

"It's not a joke! Look into my eyes, Victor, look into my eyes and see what you've done."

Silence parted them as Victor fixed upon her visage.

"You did this to me," she said quietly, with a voice that was both steady and fragile in that instant. "I am unclean, I am impure, I am tainted with your demonic corruption, and soon the world will bear witness to the fact. It is now painted upon me."

With no interest in turning his robes into her tissues, Victor released her and stepped back. He had much to process, much to take in.

"That can't be true, Thelise. How come I've—how is it no one else—I can't have been the first warlock to..." he said, denying it, and all the same trying to hide it. With every few words he touched her face, rubbed her cheek, even tried to pull her hood back up.

"This is your fault," she said again, swiping his hands away, "The ideal my people are looking to me to uphold is now all for nothing, discarded in a cur's moment of lust," she wretched the last word out as if it were bile. "I should have crushed your balls the very instant I knew what you were about to do, but I trusted you to stop!" Thelise shoved Victor back. "Now this match is meaningless! If I succeed, they will say it's because I drew upon your fel energies! I will spend a life hated and outcasted by all of my kind!"

"Hide it—"

"NO! I don't want to wear this hood, and I never did. I wanted to serve as a pure example of the children of the sun, and the ideals we have upheld through millennia! To be a symbol of pride for all who are true to the Holy Light... and for my family!" she said, her voice cracking as tears broke free from her lashes. "My mother, my father, they believed in me!"

"... And you let them down," Victor said softly. His body and lips tightened. "You let everyone down."

A trickle turned into outpour, and Thelise sank to her knees and cried, "Like a sore loser," Victor thought. "Like a child." To Victor, that's all she was now, and if he could not help her, it was much easier to drop her. All that mattered to him was his image, his reputation, his fame. He had to remember that. He suppressed and silenced his feelings for her, and removed himself from his very body, forcing it to turn and leave. "Find a new partner."

"No! You will not walk away from this," she spat. "The world will know what you have done, Victor Naught."

Victor looked back, beside himself at the sight of her once-beautiful face now contorted in hideous despair, wringing out the tears from her eyes. "And you will bring me to justice?" he asked, "When I have done nothing wrong?"

"Most assuredly you have." she said with a choked voice. Her quiet words boiled as her cheeks turned red with resentment, "When this match is over, I will personally see to your punishment! You will be paraded through the streets in nothing but shackles, pelted with rotted fruit, and marched into the Violet Citadel!"

"And I must ask, for what? For being seduced by a slut?" Victor felt as if he was digging a trench between them, but could not stop. He had to distance himself from her. "Tell me, who do you think the world will believe, the nameless priestess, who spent her life cooped-up in a cathedral, denied the joys and pleasures of youth, or the world-renowned, devilishly handsome arena champion whom she just met? When so many women have already willingly forfeited their chastity to me, I doubt there will be any question who is at fault for this.. unfortunate incident." The coldness of his words even took him aback.

"Bastard!" Thelise spat, hunched over the floor as if she had been stabbed. He did not blame her for her anger, but did not allow any kindness to show. Her reactions, her words, while understandable, were unprofessional and beneath him. This was her ugly side, and he clung to the image now before him, attempting to burn away any attraction he once held for this hate-filled maggot.

"Are you conceding so easily? You do not embody your image of perfection, so 'why try at all?' Is that it?" he rebuked, "I am embarrassed that I thought you had even an ounce of what it took to fight beside me. Why don't you go back to your room and take a knife to your legs again. I promise not to interrupt you this time."

"A fine idea!" she sobbed.

But he did not hear her, as his venomous words had graced him with an idea: a way to undo what had been done. The trench that Victor had begun digging between them had shaped into a grave, and the only way to cross the gap between him and Thelise was to climb inside. There was hope... but he had to convince her to fight. Roused, he returned to the conversation. "If you don't care for your own life, then what of the lives of your people?! Should we win, perhaps Dalaran will not belong to the Alliance, but the high elves will remain pure."

"This match is to show the blood elves what we are and what they never will be again, Victor," Thelise shouted hoarsely through tears, ignoring the sudden calm in his approach. "Vereesa wants total victory, utter humiliation of their kind. How can that be without... without my..."

"Oh to hell with Vereesa!"

"Then the same to you, Victor!" Thelise said sadly, "We owe our perseverance to her! She is the only leader we have."

There was a dry pause between them as Victor boiled, wondering how he could explain to Thelise that there was a way for them to fix this, and that he didn't need senseless threats pressing on his mind now. Even without this development, he and Thelise were no closer to preparing for the battle ahead. "You may remain contractually bound to fight for the Silver Covenant, Victor, but it's the Silver Covenant that will discover what you've done." Her voice lowered and cleared of its sorrow, bearing only her anger. "Dalaran will forever be your prison."

Victor wasted no time in leaving. "My prison," he thought, "or my grave."

Anadia Springfire lived from moment to moment, each one achingly longer than the last. The fel energies she desperately craved gave her an addictive rush and an unconquerable high. At her peak, she felt savage and sharp-witted. Her senses were heightened, her awareness bordered on supernatural, and every act was carried out with grace, speed, and precision. But without these energies, she had as much luster and prowess as a boar destined for slaughter. Sluggish but distressed, lethargic but anxious, Anadia shook and shuddered as mind and body battled one-another over which would destroy her first. Her pallid complexion and frayed hair were betrayed by the bestial hunger in her eyes, reflections of her will to survive.

In spite of her scattered appearance, Anadia found herself bent at the knees and waist over a shoddy wooden nightstand at Cantrips & Crows. A goblin warlock had drunkenly spilled grog upon her naked backside, but was unable to properly moisten anything else. Half-pint still in-hand and his other half-pint slipping out of Anadia repeatedly, his grunts of 'slut' and 'whore' served only to inhibit her enthusiasm, though they were trumped when he lovingly called her 'cumdump'. Though she remained as limp as a ragdoll, something inside her still burned in protest, and after another bout of inconsistent mashes into her vagina, it sighed out her frustration.

His slimy, semi-flaccid prick fell away from her, and she reminded herself, "I'm desperate..."

"Eh? What was that?!"

She hadn't realized she said it aloud. Rather than suffer another strike to the back of her head in the name of pleasing the impish creature, she repeated herself. "I'm desperate!"

"I fucking bet! Desperate for this cock!" he said with another poorly-aimed shove of his pelvis.

She reached down between her legs and took his cock and balls into her hand, guiding their re-entry. The goblin picked up speed, but couldn't hold it for long. Anadia gripped the nightstand and grit her teeth, wondering whether it would be more efficient to simply rip off his ball sack and find a way to retrieve his fel semen that way.

Only a half hour ago, the arena quartermaster seemed like a practical choice for a quick fix. Business had died since the end of the Northrend military campaign, and although the ensuing arena match was drawing attention, no one had any interest in spending their holiday in the Underbelly, let alone last season's attire. Goblins withstanding, the sewers were lonely enough to hear the dripping of so much ill-tended pipework. Anadia was giving this man the most excitement he'd seen in months beyond re-reading the contract that bound him here, and she held fast to the feeling of charity to make her feel better about the clammy, filth-encrusted hands squeezing her cheeks and thumbing around her asshole.

The blood elf prayed he would think nothing of pleasing her, and that he would touch as little of her as possible on his hopefully rapid climb to orgasm. Her full backside, one of the few parts of her that seemed unaffected by her lack of food and fel energy, instead received a lukewarm sensation. The goblin had poured his drink on her - deliberately, this time— then pulled out from Anadia's body. "Wh— No!"

"Yes!" He attempted to cram his member into her ill-lubricated rectum. In any other circumstance she would round upon him and lash out, but she knew that he would fail in the best case, and in the worst...

"Urrnngh!"

A brief, warm trickling sensation draped over her ass and the small of her back. The goblin couldn't hold his load, raining drops of precious essence onto her skin.

"NO! Inside, inside—" Anadia reached back to scoop his ejaculate into her hand, smearing her orifice with the fluids. She dropped to the ground, wiping away all she could and using her mouth to clean her hands of the rest. The effect was no longer immediate, but still she sucked and licked her fingers as if she were dying of thirst. It must have been a foul and lowly sight, but the experience was far worse. Anadia felt just as debased as she was hungry. It was immediately decided that her life could get no worse than that particular moment, but that thought had crept up again and again in the recent days. Warlocks were scarce, even in a city of magic, and she was sustained by them.

This was not a path Anadia could follow much longer. With the arena match in a matter of three days, she was reminded of how woefully unprepared she was and how many training sessions she had already missed with Errog—but she couldn't bear to face him like this, much less-so stand beside him in the arena. Sin'dorei residents of Dalaran would be watching her closely, scrutinizing every step, each one of them wrought with tension as their homes, lives, memories and memories-to-be-made all hinged on her performance. To fight in the arena was akin to walking a high-wire, but to fight in her state was to dance upon it instead. She would be forced to portal to Silvermoon for a real dosage and secure a swift return.

Thoughts of the Sanctum envigorated her body, soothed her shaking, and put her at ease. Her loving twin sister Staci, untrustworthy as she often was, no less stirred her body, and Anadia thought of every warlock she bedded as a wonderful new friend, remembering each of them like exotic wine, and yet none of them at all, as the evening span into a hedonistic blur. Although temporary, another visit would last her long enough to fight. She closed her eyes with a soft sigh as her senses returned.

The chill upon the Underbelly's stone flooring, the steady trickling of refuse through the sewers, the repulsive musk of her goblin suitor— this was not the place Anadia would be restored to former glamour and glory. All that was needed was a little more cum to get her home. She turned around and found the warlock gone. Though the addled elf did not notice his departure, she missed him immediately. Filthy and unsatisfying as he may be, the goblin was a fetid pool of water in a vast desert, and Anadia needed another drink to survive. Instead she found a doorway of his friends, each ogling her with lustful abandon. The sour smell of their combined panting enveloped her nose beyond hope of resistance. From the bits of hair sprouting from their large, pointed-ears, to the grit on their ooze-green faces, each stretched wide by boyish grins, she dared only spare a moment looking at the thigh-height devils before thinking of her gun.

She had regained enough consciousness from what little the warlock provided, and used that lucidity to compose herself. While some goblins exposed and began pleasuring themselves in her doorway, Anadia ignored her lewd fans, stepping quickly into the panties and chainmail leggings piled beside her on the floor. Covering her most vulnerable parts was her way of sending a message as to what was no longer on the menu. They hooted and whistled at her bare breasts until she pulled on her mail jerkin as well, but ot was by the time Anadia picked up her shoulderguards that they had grown agitated with her lack of acknowledgment. Numbers alone would not intimidate the blood elf, and so they jolted forth.

Anadia slashed the first goblin across the face with a pointed design at the end of her shoulder piece. Her backpack appeared in her hand without her realizing she had picked it up, her attention fully upon her attackers. They clearly had no interest in letting her dress further, so she stuffed her remaining items inside, and when another goblin encroached on her from behind, she swung its full weight around. The force knocked the foul imp back against the wall with a crunch. Reaching deep into her supplies, she withdrew a gun just in time to surprise the next one with a barrel to the face.

The room went silent.

Though her other guests had frozen in place, this one's fear was hidden beneath a steel mask. The gun rattled unsteadily in her hands. Anadia's fix had afforded her enough sense to dress herself, but nothing more. She pulled the trigger.