The Moon Maiden

The Moon Maiden

Calafein bled from a dozen small wounds. His chest heaved with exertion and his thighs and hips were beginning to burn from constant work. The weapon master of House Baensek had spent several days exerting himself like this, but his life of constant training and conditioning had prepared him well for such effort.

Sinala Auvryana, high priestess of Lolth, was not much better off. Her nose bled and her lip was split. Her eye was nearly swollen shut, but the grin on her face was unmistakable. She was thrilled by the pain.

Thrilled, further, by the way the weapon master of House Baensek gripped her neck tightly in his strong hand and pressed her bare body against the rough tunnel wall. Both had been at it for hours, rutting like impassioned beasts in heat. Their black-skinned bodies blended perfectly with the darkness of the tunnel, though the scant moonlight filtering in through the cave mouth a hundred feet away caused their eyes and silken white hair to gleam to their ultra-sensitive eyes.

Sinala snarled at the weapon master thrusting violently into her. Her back ached and she could feel hot blood running down her stone-cooled skin from dozens of abrasions, some of them from the last several days of repeated abuse at the hands of her favorite weapons master.

Calafein couldn't deny his own enjoyment. He wasn't fond of Lolth or her followers, but he did enjoy the physical exertion they offered him, a renowned weapon master at the peak of physicality.

Sinala pushed off the wall behind her with surprising ferocity, and Calafein took a step back to keep the priestess from sending him to his rump, impaled upon him all the while. Still, he took her meaning as she took the aggression from him. Her hands wove into his thick white hair, gripping and pulling him backward as she kissed him ravenously, biting down hard enough on his lip to draw blood—again. He growled in his throat, but Sinala only grinned in response. The weapon master continued backward, each step measured perfectly despite the intense distraction of the high priestess's hips slamming down on him over and over again. His bottom hit the stone wall opposite from where he had just been grinding the woman into stone.

The high priestess of Lolth planted her heels into Calafein's calves, using them for leverage as she rode him. The wall was angled just right for the drow man to sit back slightly and allow Sinala to properly ride him. She leaned back so that she was perfectly vertical atop Calafein's slightly reclined body, her hands playing over his sweat-slickened flesh. She rode him masterfully, her hips gyrating just so, her loins clenching tightly every time she rose up along his rigid shaft.

Grinning, Sinala began to laugh as she saw blood drip from her mouth and onto Calafein's chiseled chest. He was powerfully built, decadently so, and she reveled in the pleasure he granted her. Surely, she thought, none of the other priestesses on this expedition had been fulfilled as she now was. And so, she was inspired.

Calafein, for his part, looked up at the grinning, laughing woman, reckoning her to be at the height of careless joy, having shed the constraints of her servitude to the hated dark elf goddess. Calafein, for that moment, saw in her something he had not seen in the other priestesses he had ever known—or slain. He saw a kindred spirit, free from the chains that held down their people. And for a moment, his heart soared. His hands gripped her buttocks, eliciting a surprised, delighted squeal from the priestess who fell over him, kissing him hungrily again, tasting and swallowing the blood on his lips.

He buried his face in her breasts when she pulled away, the soft mounds just generous enough to kiss his chiseled cheek bones. His hands rose along her sweaty, abraded back, across her ribs, to cup those perfectly shaped orbs. He pinched the turgid nipples hard, and she squealed again. He nearly laughed himself, so caught up in the perfect moment of bliss, pain, and ecstasy.

Then he heard the chanting. Sinala's arms were open wide, her mouth barely moving but her voice unmistakable. He recognized the imprecation to Lolth, and he knew the magic would soon coalesce. Hating himself for believing this one drow woman could have been his equal in spirit, he threw her down to the ground, trying to interrupt her chant. She grunted, but otherwise showed no sign that the spell had been broken.

Lolth had her, and Calafein would wrench her from the goddess's wicked grasp. He grabbed hold of her hair, lifted her onto her knees, and squatted down, hammering himself into her from behind as he wrenched her head back. Her neck bent in a most painful, exquisite way, and her voice shrieked.

Calafein thought he had succeeded, and thus ended their lovemaking with a cataclysmic torrent. His orgasm thundered through him, filling the priestess with bliss and seed. His twitching cock sent her barreling over the edge of her own orgasm. The position, him dominant over a high priestess of Lolth, was a sacrilege most drow females would never tolerate.

He grinned in victory, pulling out of the abused priestess, both of them looking much worse for wear. She rose, though, grinning to herself as she dipped two of her long, skilled fingers into her nethers, pulling out a cloying, sweet nectar—a blend of their mutual passion—to taste, savor, and swallow.

"The goddess smiles upon our union," she said, putting her hands on Calafein's chest. "I could feel your seed take hold nigh instantly. Lolth is pleased. We will bear a mighty child, and you will be inducted into House Auvryana posthaste."

Calafein glowered, and his scowl could not be mistaken. She only giggled. "Come, then. Let us rejoin camp. No doubt they heard our exertions and have devolved into an orgy, inspired by our lust!"

Calafein retrieved his gear, and as Sinala began casting healing magic on him, he gripped her wrist—hard. "Leave me," he said. He watched her face and was surprised by the emotional pain that seemed to cross her face. It vanished quickly.

"Well enough," she said tersely. "Join when you are..."

There was a whistle that they could only hear in their minds, the signal to attack the fey elven community. Both dark elves looked to each other in alarm. To be absent during a raid was a dishonor and disservice to one's House. Not that Calafein gave two damns about his, but it would cause more trouble for him to be absent than to raid the fey elves and pretend to slay most of them. It was a ruse he had perfected over the decades, pretending to slaughter the hated fey elves so they could live on in whatever life they desired.

It was a vile thing to slay these weaker creatures, Calafein believed, and had not the heart for it.

Sinala, on the other hand...

No, that was not an expression of eager excitement that was undoubtedly plastered upon the faces of the rest of their kind. Hers was something different. Perhaps there was yet hope for her?

She produced a wand from her pack. "We must make haste," she said in a hushed voice. "Invisibility."

Calafein nodded. His armor slipped on easily, as the dark elven mail was supple and easy to don and doff. He helped the high priestess with her leather cuirass and she gave him a sharp kiss—his lips stung with the kiss, reminding him of the fervency and violence of their passion. Then, she tapped his forehead with the wand, rendering him invisible, and repeated the process on herself. Together, they sprinted out of the cave mouth to see that their cadre of drow raiders were already encircling the fey elven gathering. The songs had died off, the dancing had ceased, and there was little movement within the perimeter they had marked.

"We were not supposed to attack so soon," Calafein said as they rushed down the smooth foothill that lead to the rolling hillscape the elves had claimed. It would be a solid minute of hard sprinting, and Calafein worried his priestess counterpart would not be up to the effort. Calafein had spent his entire life honing his body to be the perfect fighting machine. Athletic, strong, graceful, durable, there were few tasks he considered difficult in the arena of physicality.

But he heard her feet trod the grass near him, nearly keeping pace with him, and he grinned his approval, not fearing she would notice thanks to their invisibility enchantment.

"Surprising?" she asked, a bit breathlessly. He did not bother responding. "A priestess keeping pace with a weapon master?"

Calafein mastered his expression. He should have expected a high priestess to have means to pierce invisibility. "Not quite keeping pace," he said, and sped away from her.

"They called the attack early," Sinala said from behind him. Not so far behind, though.

"Why?" he asked.

"To shame me," she said, "most likely. Rutting like a beast with a lowborn weapon master. Shameful."

He could not tell if she was chiding herself or not but thought little more of it. There was obvious tension between Sinala Auvryana and the leader of their raiding expedition, a middling priestess of House Baenre, the ruling house. Even though outright assassinations were forbidden during raiding expeditions—and within brothels and other establishments of revelry, but that was not relevant here—there were no laws against shaming your adversaries.

No doubt that was the Baenre priestess's aim.

They arrived at the gathered raiding party just as they completely encircled the fey camp. The Baenre priestess—Faen, was it?—sneered as their invisibility wore off. "How kind of you to join us," she whispered harshly, addressing only Sinala Auvryana and ignoring Calafein entirely.

"You called the attack early," Sinala responded. Faen Baenre shrugged and smirked, turning away from the lesser priestess. Calafein reckoned Sinala was more than the Baenre girl's equal, but, because of her House's rank, could not openly move against the upstart priestess. Calafein watched the girl put a silver whistle to her lips and blow another telepathic note.

The attack was on.

As was customary, the leading party would hold back as the rest of their attack group moved in, assassinating lookouts. Once an all-clear signal was given, they would move in and seek out high priority targets—spellcasters, healers, slave stock, and so on.

The minutes went by, and Faen Baenre's impatience got the better of her. "What's taking so long? They are meager fey elves!" Her harsh whispers were punctuated by another whistle, this one audible outside of their minds.

The attack was failing.

"Look," Calafein snapped, pointing off to the side where silver-glowing blades were clashing with black drow swords. "You should have waited, fool girl."

Incensed, Faen Baenre almost lashed out at Calafein, but his cold, deadly stare stayed even her hand. Instead, she said, "Auvryana, assist with dispatching this fodder."

"Now is not the time," Sinala said. "If this attack is failed, then we retreat! That is the right call."

"Our attack is not failed!" Faen Baenre shouted, breaking her attempts at stealth. The other commanders, three in total that Calafein had not bothered learning the names of, gasped. Moreover, they were witness to Priestess Baenre's command. To go against it was tantamount to treason, and the punishment would be death. Or worse.

Unless, of course, all in attendance agreed that their leader was inept and agreed to murder her.

However, Faen Baenre had too many allies here in this small stand of thick-trunked trees. If Sinala moved against the girl, the other commanders would summarily execute her. Calafein was not certain he could bring himself to save her if it came to that.

It would not, though, as Sinala moved out of their hiding place, mace drawn and a shield of divine energy appearing on her left arm. She was angry, he knew, and would likely be killed if she did not fight wisely.

You are not like the others.

The voice set Calafein back, and he found himself looking at each other commander in turn to try and sense if they were communicating with him psychically. Only one of them was known to possess telepathic abilities, and he had his attention on the battle unfolding before them. Calafein noticed that it was, indeed, an all-out battle. Their fifty drow seemed evenly matched against a mix of fey elves, half-breeds, and even a few drow in glittering silver armor and clothing. All of them bore a weapon that gleamed with pure silver light—much like that of the moon hanging low above them.

"These elves were waiting for us," Calafein said. "You've led us into an ambush, you idiot!"

"Then go rescue your pet girl, low-born scum!" Faen Baenre said. "And may these filth defile your corpses when they—"

Her voice was cut off—quite literally—when Calafein's sword hissed from its sheath and took her throat. Wards flashed as his enchanted blade dissolved them in one stroke just before severing her neck. His other sword was in his hand as the other three commanders looked at him, gaping.

"This is failed," one of them said, withdrawing a brooch bearing his House's insignia. "The Baenre girl was inept."

The other three nodded. "Lolth be with you," another said as the three of them activated the magic in their brooches and teleported away.

It occurred to Calafein he could teleport safely back to House Baensek. He could be home, safe. Guarded.

But Sinala was out there, and he was not capable of giving up on her quite yet.

Moreover, that mysterious voice had unnerved him.

He charged out of his hiding place in the direction Sinala Auvryana had gone.

When he came upon her, she was facing off against two swordsmen and was holding her own. She was battered—and not in the way he had left her—but seemed well enough. She grinned at him. "Come to join the fun, then?"

"The Baenre girl is dead," he said, lifting his bloodied sword. "Let us be away from here!"

None had engaged him yet, but he was wary for one of the silver-clad warriors to come rushing out of the many dark places the hut-village contained.

"We may yet take victory here!" she said, lunging under a high sword and crushing ribs with her mace. She shouted triumphantly, but the other swordsman's blade took the back of her thigh. Her triumphant shout turned to a pained wail.

Calafein rushed in and batted the swordsman's blade out of his hand and knocked him out with a heavy pommel strike. He knocked the other swordsman out as well—an easy task after broken ribs.

"Sinala, come with me," Calafein said, his voice pleading. She looked at him curiously, her eyes showing understanding after a moment of thought.

"Okay," she said, but her body stiffened immediately. Calafein recognized the effect immediately and looked past Sinala at another dark elf, clad in silver robes and holding a shaft of pure silver light. It took Calafein a moment to recognize the staff for what it was.

Why are you still here? Flee.

Calafein clenched his swords, growling in defiance.

If Sinala could have moved, she would have gaped, but the holding magic kept her body rigid from her toes to her nose.

"Then be judged," the silver-clad drow said as she approached. She leveled the staff at Calafein and a beam of cold silver radiance rushed at him.

In an instant, he knew only darkness.

He did not know how long had passed between falling into unconsciousness, but when he awoke the moon was shining straight down into a round, domed stone cell. Sinala was there, her wrists shackled at her waist. She was kneeling, and her legs were secured to a padded section of floor so that her knees did not scuff. Nude, seemingly asleep, Calafein took a moment to wonder at her beauty—and at the fact that he was seemingly unrestrained, free to move about the cell that was just short enough to keep him uncomfortably stooped.

He examined the walls, the opening above him—which shocked him when he tried to reach his hand through—and the grate serving as the only means of egress or ingress. He looked over his shoulder at Sinala again, and when he turned to look back out of the grate, the female drow with her staff awaited him.

"Calafein Baensek, correct?" she asked. Her voice was soft, gentle. Like the moonlight. He didn't bother responding, for he understood that she was certain in her knowledge. "I welcome you to the enclave of Bal Sharah. I am Celise."

"Of what House?" he asked.

"House?"

He furrowed his brow, confused by her ignorance.

"Ah, yes. My family. I have no House but that of Eilistraee."

"Celise Eilistraee, then," Calafein said matter-of-factly.

"Just Celise," the drow girl said, smiling bashfully. "I claim no house, for I serve only the goddess Eilistraee."

As she spoke, she waved her hand at the sky, at the bright silver moon, full over their heads. Calafein suppressed a sneer. "I see," he said flatly. "What brings a drow priestess to abandon the chains of Lolth?"

"I do not like chains," she said simply. "I prefer the freedom of the open sky, the grace of Eilistraee, and the cool, unoppressive light of her moon."

"Why am I not in chains?" he asked suddenly.

"If it were not for me, you would be. You dispatched our two most skilled fighters without even using your fine swords," she said. "My Master-of-Arms insisted on restraints, but I have seen into your heart. You are not an evil man. Trapped, perhaps, by the wicked snares of your superiors, but not evil."

Calafein paused. "It was your voice, then," he said. "In my head, I mean."

"I possess no such abilities," Celise assured him, and he knew she was not bearing false to him. He furrowed his brow. "I will return at the next sunset. Your cell will be sun-proofed during the day. I suggest you rest if you can."

Calafein nodded, folding his arms contemplatively. He looked over his shoulder at Sinala, resting herself, and realized he had no interest in sleep. So he stripped his tunic and rolled his pants up to his knees. Barefoot, he went through several slow, methodical movements. The martial expressions were cleansing to him, and soon he was slick with sweat and his muscles burned with exertion as he transitioned from slow, forced movements to sharp, snapping punches and kicks.

He had no concept of time when he finished and settled down to sleep beside Sinala. Calafein was forcing his breathing to slow when she stirred, looked around, and cursed loudly and vigorously at her restraints.

"Why are you not shackled as I?" she demanded. He had clasped his hands behind his head and crossed his legs, letting the cool stone floor soothe his sweaty body.

"I was judged a goodly man and left free to roam our cell, while you, a priestess of Lolth, were shackled in a way that would prevent you from trickery." He paused. "I think, at least."

"I can cast spells without my hands and feet," she said and immediately went into casting a spell that would, presumably, free her. It failed even as she finished the final syllable, a warbling sizzle indicating that her magic had been overcome by something.

"I'm sure you can, and I'm sure they know that," he said.

"What do you mean, 'a goodly man?' I watched you slay two of their warriors," she said angrily.

"No, I did not slay them," he confessed. "Nor have I ever slain a surface elf."

"What?" she asked, aghast. "How have you gotten away with such a thing for so long?"

"I am a weapon master of some renown, some respect, in Menzoberranzan. I was, at least. It should not surprise you that I am capable of making people look dead in the heat of battle."

Sinala was silent, but he could see defeat in the way her shoulders slumped. "How do we get out of here?"

"To what end? Would you return to Menzoberranzan?" he asked, genuinely curious.

"Perhaps, perhaps not. After this shameful failure, I imagine I would be better served as a rogue," she admitted. Calafein saw a thread of hope and tugged on it with all his might.