Amethystra

5

Cyra woke up with her hand on Wolfe's thickly muscled chest. Her first instinct, as was her wont, was to cast her eyes downward. The tent in the satin sheets was prodigious, unlike anything she had seen before—except, perhaps, with one other man. Everything that came next was instinctive and without thought. The aching emptiness in her loins turned to a ravenous heat, her pulse pounded with excitement, lust stormed in her mind like the greatest of tempests, and her hand slid down Wolfe's torso, reaching for his manhood.

He stopped her swiftly, and the hitherto sleeping giantborne wrapped a grayish hand around her bright red wrist. Indeed, his hand was so large that she thought he could hold her entire fist, wrist, and a fair amount of forearm within its clutches. She didn't hate the thought.

"You made me promise," he grumbled, his sleepy voice rumbling in his chest, right against her head. It was like listening to a rockslide from the top of a mountain, and his muscular chest was just as hard as mountain stone. "This was for comfort only."

"I take it back," she said wantonly. She threw a thick thigh across his leg, and she instantly felt his relatively cool skin against her burning loins. At once, she flexed her hips, grinding them into the muscular pillar, but Wolfe withdrew that as well, slipping out from under her and off to the other side of the bed. He was grinning at her, and she could see the desire in his eyes.

"No," he said sternly. He ran a hand over his face. "I gave you my word."

"Break it," she said, trying a different tactic. She rolled onto her back, legs spread wide, her hand cupping her vulva while the other gripped one of her generous breasts. "Break

me

."

"Tempting, but no." His smirk was infuriating. Couldn't he see how desperate she was? Couldn't he see that she

needed

him? "Iliari."

The word, the name, broke her trance. She remembered, then, that she had instructed him to say her name if she proved too difficult with her morning needs. She scowled. "Fuck her."

"You don't mean that," he said, sliding off the bed and standing up. He reached for the ceiling, stretching, heedless of his erection jutting out like some malformed arm. Cyra's gaze locked onto it, and then her hand, causing Wolfe to reflexively pull away, aborting his stretch to swat her hand off his manhood. "You made me promise. If you hadn't, you'd be choking on it."

And just like that, Iliari was forgotten and Cyra was smirking on the bed, opening her mouth wide for Wolfe's manhood, which was drifting further and further away.

A series of knocks on her door broke the moment, and the draconian slunk off the bed and walked, naked, to the door. Without hesitation, she pulled it open, then looked salaciously at Wolfe over her shoulder as she revealed another muscular man with a single sword on his hip, fine leathers, and a short-sleeved tunic that hugged his thick upper arms.

"The gods favor me this morning," she said, walking away from Venos Larque, her muscular ass dancing seductively with each step. She could feel the half-elf's eyes on her ass, but Wolfe wasn't looking away from the smaller swordsman. "Two fine stallions to ride. What a lucky damsel I am!"

"No," Wolfe said sternly. Venos smirked a little behind Cyra, but the red-skinned woman was already on her bed, knees up and wide as she pressed her hand to her vulva.

"Not many that can turn down that wanton slattern," Venos said, addressing the giant in the room.

"She made me oath that I wouldn't take advantage of her morning deviance," Wolfe said, nodding. "I'm a lot of things, including an incorrigible bedmate, but not an oathbreaker."

"Boys," Cyra said, watching the two men address each other.

"You are Wolfe, no?" Venos asked. "Hammer told me about you."

"Nothing malicious, I hope."

Venos smirked, then shook his head negative.

"Gentlemen..." Cyra began to growl, clenching her thighs around her hand and arching her back seductively.

"You and yours should be a boon to our community. Hunting monsters and brigands...not plentiful here, but definitely a service to the public."

Wolfe nodded. "Not for free, mind you. A man has to make a living. Our work is not a charity."

"Fucking hells," Cyra said, pulling the blankets of her bed over her head. She was fuming with frustration and sexual need that only two strong, well-hung men could slake. Her fingers jammed into her swollen, sodden slit, and she released the most whorish moan she could manage—without having an impressive length of meat pummeling her womb, at least.

She heard murmuring from under the rustling of her sheets, but she largely ignored it as she angrily fingered herself. Then, suddenly, the sheets were gone and Venos was on the bed, half-naked with his cock in his hand as he knee-walked from the foot of the bed to between her thighs.

Cyra pouted.

"Am I not enough?" Venos asked her. "You wound me, woman."

"Don't be so dramatic," she said, grabbing him by the neck and hooking her heels at the backs of his thighs. She tugged him into her, sheathing him easily into her blazing loins. The heat and pressure seemed to dispel his wounded ego, for his hips moved in perfect harmony with her pulsing loins, and the crush of his hips against hers was achingly blissful.

"I need you inside me again," she said, her breath hot against his throat as she bit him. Venos didn't so much as wince, and the half-elf's vigor seemed to amplify with her words. Cyra dug her heels into his thighs, reaching down to grab his buttocks and pull him with every thrust. Her back arched, then flexed in an attempt to open her loins to him further. She could feel him painfully deep inside of her with each thrust, and her cries were a mixture of pain and ecstasy as Venos held himself over her.

She lamented that she couldn't see his muscles twitching within his shoulders and pectorals. That decadent dance of flesh was enough to make the fire-blooded woman sweat with need. Instead, her eyes focused on his handsome face, his chiseled features refined by elven heritage and strengthened by his human heritage. She watched as sweat began to bead on his forehead, then trickle down to the tip of his nose. Cyra was so entranced by the glistening display that she watched a droplet of sweat drip directly from his nose to her lips, where it landed with a small splash that teased her tongue with the salty sweet taste. She licked her lips clean, wrapped her hands tight around his buttocks and felt her first orgasm begin to wax within her.

In a moment of pure, unadulterated bliss, she felt his cock swell inside her and his seed blossom forth. Her climax hit as the first wave of his seed rushed into her loins, coating her womb, and, as though imparted with some magical intuition, Cyra knew that his seed would strike home.

Her eyelids split open—when had she shut them so tightly?—and she gasped as she saw in Venos's eyes the same knowledge.

The tentative, pregnant moment between them burst as he kissed her fiercely. Cyra wrapped her arms around him, returned his fervor, slashing her tongue against his as her powerful legs locked him against her, rooting his cock deep against her cervix as his seed permeated her very being.

"You felt it?" Venos asked. Whether by virtue of his own magical nature or some primal intuition, he knew not, but in his heart of hearts he knew that his seed would root in Cyra's womb, and a child of elven, dragon, and human heritage would grow within her.

Cyra didn't respond. A lump formed in her throat. She simply nodded.

"I will be a father," he stated, though his tone implied a question.

Cyra, again, nodded.

"Iliari is going to kill me," he said, and the lump in Cyra's throat collapsed. She laughed as she buried her face into Venos's shoulder.

"She'd have to kill me, first, Venos Larque," she said, bringing her hands to frame his dewy face. "She will take you in, or she will be alone."

A cloud passed over his face, and Cyra wondered if it was uncertainty or fear. Or something else entirely. Either way, she kissed him again, pulled him back down atop her, and held him like that until his cock flagged and slipped free from her sodden loins.

Eventually, she released the half-elf from her embrace, his tunic and leather vest stained with sweat from being held by the dragon-blooded warrior. The heat of her flesh was indeed intense, and more so after lovemaking.

"Who should tell her?" Venos asked as he drew his pants up to his waist, taking care to tuck his still-glistening cock gently into the crotch.

"I will," she said, smiling up at him. But Venos was already shaking his head at her.

"Not alone," he said. He put a hand on Cyra's face, kissing her forehead, right between the horns. "Never alone."

For a moment, Cyra felt her head spinning. Venos had always been a close friend, a thrilling lover, and a joy to be around. She had never felt a romantic feeling for him in the past. Why, now, was she swooning at his gestures? Was it the conception they had just achieved together working magic on her heart? Had she simply refused to acknowledge emotions in the past due to her marriage to Iliari? Or was it the distance she now felt between her and the elven assassin?

She couldn't know, not now, but trusted Venos to respect her heart and emotions as they undertook this journey together.

He left her with swirling thoughts, tumultuous emotions, and a considerable mess leaking down her thighs. So Cyra did the only thing she knew to do in such times. She returned to her bed, opened the bedside table's drawer, and blindly rifled through the contents until she found the thick, flesh-like texture of a very generous olisbos fashioned by Coira Revel herself. She spoke the command word—"unbreakable"—and the grayish shaft began to hum with magical vibrations, the tip leaking a lubricating oil, and the entire object began to pulse in her hand.

She thrust it into herself, knowing she would be perfectly distracted from her thoughts for the next several hours.

Quilin kissed Felia on the brow, then held her close. They looked down from the hilltop they had slept upon, unsheltered from the night, and Quilin dutifully used his tunic to wipe the dew from Felia's skin. Dawn was beginning to crest on the eastern horizon, casting the sky in a pink-tinged, steel-blue. Quilin's eyes focused on that for a moment, his hand lingering on the curve of Felia's hip. He felt her turn her head to face him, her silvery eyes peering at him, but couldn't tear his eyes away from the rising sun.

It breached the rim of the earth, burning his eyes in an instant. He didn't wince, and only scarcely averted his eyes from the golden-white light. His brow began to sweat slightly as warmth washed over him and the pain his eyes waxed to the point that he had to look away.

"What was the purpose of that?" Felia asked him.

Quilin shrugged his shoulders. "It was a compulsion," he confessed, no other answer coming to mind. "I needed to see it happen."

"A new sun on a new day," Felia said. She smiled, but when Quilin looked to her, he saw only sadness. "You depart."

He nodded. The weight of the moment, of the previous night and the hours of lovemaking she had "forced" him to endure, of the spiritual bond they had forged in the singular moment of fleshly melding, settled on him. Her smile never faltered, even as tears began to form in the rims of her eyes.

"Will I see you again?" she asked tentatively. Quilin wanted to say yes. More than that, he wanted to abandon his heart's desire and remain with her to satisfy her emotional need.

But he only shrugged, and a sob—just one—shattered her poise. He pulled her against him, her face against his chest, and kissed her between the dainty horns atop her brow. She didn't sob, didn't shake or tremble, but he felt the hot warmth of her tears against his chest. Quilin was happy to hold her as long as she needed, but Felia broke the embrace swiftly, looking up at her new, if brief, lover.

"Quilin Torvirr," she said, her eyes glimmering up at him, "I will look to the moon every night, that we may share that small bit of closeness while you are gone. Should we be looking up at the Silver Lady together, wherever we are, know that I am truly with you in spirit, if nothing else."

She put her hands on his face gently, pulled him into a soft, tender kiss.

The lovers finished dressing, then took their time walking back to the walls of Amethystra, where the Violet Scale Knights readily opened the gate for Quilin, whom they recognized instantly. He held her hand in the crook of his elbow as they walked through the avenues of Amethystra, taking in the sights, sounds, and scents of the slowly wakening city. Sweet breads, sizzling breakfast meats, and fragrant teas created a myriad of scents as they strode through the city.

When Quilin arrived at Felia's home—a small, two-story building toward the northeastern wall of Amethystra—they shared an embrace, another kiss, and left each other's company. They were both thankful that her adoptive father was not home yet. Quilin felt his own pangs of sadness as he considered the love he might have had with the young woman, the life they might have shared, for however long they wished to share it with each other, and the joy they might have found in each other's arms as old lovers.

Quilin's stride faltered when he saw a familiar figure standing in the middle of the street, seemingly awaiting his arrival.

"Ravin," Quilin said, then abruptly shook his head. "Apologies. Lady Myraden," he corrected, sweeping into a low bow. She may not have been noble by birth, but in Amethystra, such things were immaterial to the respect owed to an individual. She was an honored guest, an honorable woman, and someone that Quilin did not truly know. It was only right he afford her a proper greeting, despite his surprise at seeing her.

"Stand up, handsome," Ravin said. "Walk with me. I did not wait for you all the night long to suffer through belabored pleasantries."

Quilin relaxed a little—but only a little, for Ravin had an intensity about her that he couldn't deny, and it gave him pause. "What can I do for you, Lady Myraden?" he asked.

"Do for me?" she asked. She approached him and placed a hand on his chest, her eyes smoldering as she stared at him. "You work for me, now. And we have much to do before we depart today."

"Then I am at your service," Quilin said, bowing his head slightly. "I only need my equipment, and I can depart at your leisure."

"Good," Ravin said, sliding her hand up his chest, cupping his cheek, and smirking. "We are heading to House Torvirr anyway. I seek to procure a skyship for the guild. You don't know any ship-builders, do you?"

They walked together, half-elf and half-naelf, down Moonarrow Avenue, which was a minor road cutting diagonally through the city in a winding, curving path. As the city fully woke, Ravin stopped to buy some sweetbreads from a wide, open window on the corner of Moonarrow and Dovetail Street. The orcish woman in the shop grinned toothily at Ravin, and the half-elf favored her with a wink before offering one of the sweetbreads to Quilin. He took and ate, enjoying the morsel even though it stoked his hunger for something more substantial.

He hoped that Mistress Silvi had roused the kitchen staff for a hearty breakfast by now.

"May I ask a personal question?" Quilin said tentatively.

"Take care when you do, for you may not enjoy the answer overmuch."

"You and Wolfe," he began, and Ravin immediately held up her hand to forestall the rest of his question.

"Yes, we used to," she said. "Yes, it fits. Yes, I enjoyed it. No, not anymore. Yes, sometimes. And no."

Quilin's steps slowed as he tried to piece together the answers with probable questions. He felt his face flush as he did so, and Ravin smirked as she watched the gears turning. She turned to face him, though she continued walking backward at his pace.

"Come along, Quilin," she said, "for our morning moves swiftly, and we must match pace."

Quilin shook the lurid thoughts from his mind and resumed his pace, stuffing the rest of the sweetbread in his mouth. Ravin was ahead of him slightly, and, for the first time, he gave some attention to the curve of her hip, the shapeliness of her back, the length and supple grace of her legs as she strode in stiff leather leggings. He found his mourning at the would-be loss of his romance with Felia ended swiftly.

And he suddenly felt very excited for his adventures with the Ravinwolf Guild.

Mistress Silvi did, in fact, have the kitchen staff roused to prepare a hearty breakfast. Indeed, before the sun was up, the Aesir woman had been out of House Torvirr procuring fresh eggs, meats, and vegetables despite her fatigue and the ache between her legs from a handful of eager young men. A bit of magleaf tea had stimulated her mind enough to fight off the fatigue of too little sleep so that she could tend to her duties, though, and now she watched the staff, even Reina, performing admirably as they cooked and prepared to serve. The new day's sun was slicing in through the windows when Silvi heard a very specific chime.

She removed her apron, straightened her blouse and felt around her head to make sure her hair was well in order. She could feel some of her golden blonde hair slipping free of the traditional Aesir braids she favored but knew she hadn't the time to fix them. Silvi left the kitchen, strode through the dining hall, and into a side passage that was rarely ever used.

There, Luriia Torvirr awaited her, half-naked and glowing with divine magic. Silvi's breath left her lungs, sucked right into Luriia's mouth as the dark elf woman kissed her fiercely, driving her back into the door she had just closed. Silvi was taller and stronger than Luriia, but she felt completely at the woman's mercy as her black-skinned flesh pressed in, hands groping at Silvi's bosoms, clawing at her blouse, clutching at the catch of her leggings.

"My Lady," Silvi panted as Luriia began suckling at her neck. Silvi gasped soon after, though, as Luriia's hand made its way down the front of her pants, delicate and skilled fingers gliding through the soft tuft of blonde hair and into the welcoming, warm well within. "Gods of thunder," the Aesir woman said, a common oath from her homeland when one was under particularly intense strain...or pleasure.

Silvi began to melt into the door, her legs going weak as Luriia plucked the strings of her pleasure in ways that Silvi had truly never experienced before coming to Amethystra and meeting this naelven woman in bed for the first time. Luriia's lips locked with hers again, their tongues slashing as the dark elf's fingers slipped into Silvi's loins, curling deftly to massage the larger woman's most intimate core.

In mere heartbeats, Silvi was moaning a high-pitched mewl into Luriia's mouth. Her orgasm crested—a minor one, the kind that made her desperate for more.

Then, Luriia's magic coalesced, blossoming from her occupied digits and blooming right into Silvi's sodden depths. Her legs lost strength, and it was only by virtue of the door that she didn't fall completely down as another, more intense wave of bliss wracked her body.

Luriia was smiling against Silvi's lips. She withdrew her finger and tasted it as Silvi watched on, breathless and clutching the door behind her for any measure of strength. She watched as translucent crimson fabric lifted itself up from Luriia's waste, her magnificent red robe putting itself over the woman's shoulders and tying itself around her waist.

Silvi felt her mind invigorated, her body slowly regaining its strength as divine inspiration washed over her awareness. "Thank you, Matron."

"Shut up," Luriia said flippantly, dismissively playful as she waved her hand. "You are as much a part of this family as my husband, Silviathe."