Trigger Warning: NonCon, Incest, Drow based degeneracy.
The conquering hero in his blackened plate, with his sword thrown across his back, upon his ebon steed with his retinue in tow had returned to Waterdeep.
Or that's what he blithely relayed to one of the guardsmen at the entrance to the city of Waterdeep upon his return to the city, a strangely formal thing considering the breadth of his adventures. The Drow very much yearned for a simple return, to eat his food, to drink his wine, to fuck his slave girls, and then to sleep in his own bed. The Guards had hailed him at the gates, his reputation having long since preceded him, the armed men showing a healthy amount of caution in their questioning of him before releasing him into the city.
Even if he did find it odd that they spoke on how happy they were that he was back so that he could rein in what was going on in his quarter.
He found it incredibly odd, what in the nine hells and the infinite demons that spawned within those infernal planes were they speaking on?
Still, it was good to be back. He could count on the City Guard to have supported his daughter in her ruling of his villa within the city as Lady of the Manor.
His progeny, his currently only living heir. He'd seen to her schooling, to her training, having molded the bizarre child into someone worthy of their family name; surely the girl could only have flourished under those conditions during his two year long absence.
So one could imagine the absolutely dour look upon his striking visage when he returned to his villa and saw the bacchanalian state of things, as if it'd been one continuous party since he'd left.
That's where he was now, feeling the weight of having an unworthy spawn as an heir, and the dire, deep seated desire to go back and time and use her mother's mouth to catch his seed rather than breeding her and producing whatever failure had turned his villa, a testament to his fortitude and success since leaving the Underdark, into a den of depravity.
Not that he had a problem with depravity, but to be conducting it in such an embarrassing way that even the guards at the front gate knew of it and felt safe speaking on it? That, that, was something that Rolen couldn't let go. Maybe that's why when he entered his villa with the full force of the retinue that'd come home with him, he immediately set to clear his hard fought for home.
It'd taken just a few moments. Anyone that was actually willing to fight those armed men folded within moments from having to actually fight real soldiers, to cross blades with people that were experienced beyond dark alleyways and within an hour Rolen found himself in his study with the entirety of the situation at hand.
If they wanted to revel in filth like wretched slaves to their own lust and addictions, then his men would force them to clean and organize like slaves did. Besides, what was their recourse? To break away and plead their cases before the very guards that they'd be vexing this entire time? Unlikely.
...but that wasn't what weighed on the Drow Noble's mind, no.
He was waiting on the last two of his men to bring a certain someone to him. His daughter had been responsible for this, but why? How? He didn't know, not yet, but the reasons why weren't nearly as important as the deed itself, and for that? For that, he had a simple solution: let the punishment fit the crime.
He hadn't raised his daughter in Drow society, but now it was time to expose her to the traditional way of doing things, since she wanted to break with his ways and bring shame onto their house.
The guards brought Ophelia in and pushed her towards the desk before slamming the door to stand guard on the other side. She looked less than enthused, with her ebon skin and platinum hair, her red eyes narrowing as she beheld her father. She'd grown into a curvy thing, even with the horns that would have gotten her discarded by the elders, she was the epitome of what a Drow Matriarch should look like, if she would have had the discipline and resolve that he'd desperately tried to impose upon her.
A figure that resembled an hourglass, with sculpted calves unhindered by garments, shown off to the naked eye with her supple onyx skin and toned muscles. Her thick thighs and generous, child bearing hips that were almost obscene in how they were allowed to be shown off by her sideless skirt that more resembled a silk loincloth than actual clothes. She was a great beauty by any standard, even more so by the same culture that would have struck her down by those slight imperfections curling up from her hairline like a primal crown bestowed by a primordial god.
It made Rolen all the more furious, especially with the arrogance on her face that dared to hold him in contempt, as if he was an interloper in his own home.
His eyes met hers, and despite his rolling anger that was building? There was a smidgen of pride in the fact that his daughter had found the bravery to oppose his wishes, even if he was about to smash that bravery.
"I thought you wouldn't return, Father."
"Have you known me to break my word, Ophelia?"
"No, I haven't."
"Then you know what's coming." It was like dropping a weight he'd been carrying as he stood, fingertips still on the desk. Ophelia's response was to simply raise her chin in an act of defiance. She had no other options, after all, using her magics would only prompt a lethal response from the man across from her, but still, she didn't buckle from fear like one might expect.
It earned her the barest amount of good will, even if it was what she was supposed to do.
He moved, she countered. He came across with a smack so hard that it resonated through the entirety of the villa, hard enough that a second smack followed when she hit the floor, and he was on her. His weight dropped onto her frame, she resisted. Fists plowed against the tunic he wore, knuckles finding purchase against a musculature that could best be described as linen wrapped stone, causing tension in her wrists from each attempt. She was the picture of barely contained fury but just like the mountain before the storm, he didn't yield to all the howling of the wind.
A hand lashed outward, catching her by the throat as steely digits dug into the sides of it, eyes narrowing in scrutiny, in disgust of his progeny that lay before her and the instinctive elfen urge to hurt what defied him rose up inside of him sulfurous bile. Still, he leaned down and his face was inches from hers, speaking to her once again. "Since my daughter wishes to act like a wanton whore with no breeding, I'll fuck and breed her like one until she understands her newfound place." Spitting directly into her face, earning a scream from her, as nail tipped fingers tried to claw his eyes out.
They were unsuccessful.
Strong hands, capable hands, lethal hands, they rolled her onto her stomach, pushing only to yank those hips up and flip her little loin cloth above her full derriere. It was a sight, fat padded muscle, two perfect ebon globes of flesh that he just wrenched apart and spat between, pushing in that wad of spit with his thumb much to her protest, screaming that he was a would be catamite for working on sodomizing her. He just acted on making her an honest woman as he tugged that throbbing piece of fuckmeat from beneath his deerskin breeches, a far cry from the armor he'd rode in wearing.
Another wad of spit, this time on the head of that fearsome cock. "No!" Ophelia screamed, trying to pull away. He just leapt onto her, plunging that head between her cheeks, wiggling it in much to her cacophony of screams, which got so shrill that they without sound, especially as that head breached her, red eyes tight with tears. He didn't hilt himself in, no. He pulled out almost immediately. She relaxed, thinking it was over only to go quiet with wide eyes and an open mouth when he SLAMMED that battering ram back into her, even deeper this time.
