Drow In The City Ch 03

Dark thing swept this way and that in the violet sky. The moon did little to illuminated the surroundings; pale, sallow light did little to combat the pervasive darkness of the Plane of Shadow. Faceless people were all around him, bound by shadowy webs at the wrists, waist, neck, and ankles. The tormentors patrolled the blackness, their beady red eyes piercing the victims' souls.

In their hands, long rods leaked inky black shadow. Mikhail watched as a poor soul was prodded with one of those rods, watched as their veins stood out in their skin as the flesh was drawn tight over the skin. They screamed in pain and abject terror. Mikhail was compelled by an unseen force and thrust his shadow-rod into a woman's neck. She convulsed, her skin tightening all over. He saw her bone structure, muscle striations, and veins standing out in her neck, shoulders, arms, and chest. A tear opened in her skin over her shoulder, and her cry congealed his blood.

Mikhail wondered, not for the first time, why had accepted Shar's bargain. An eternity serving her so that he never had to worry for food, shelter, anything again. Homelessness had been torturous, to be certain, but this life...this wasn't a life to him. But he was bound to his word, wasn't he?

A whispered voice carried on stagnant air to his ears, fading as it repeated itself again and again. "Mikhail," came the sultry, wicked woman's voice. He knew what she wanted, it was that time of day. "Mikhail, pet, come to me."

The words were honey, but laced with venom. He knew this all too well. And it was not a request by any stretch of the term. Shar was demanding his presence, and before he could think of the best way to her Black Castle, the world before him was torn asunder by shimmering violet fire. The portal spread open, revealing the utter blackness of Shar's castle. He did not step through, rather, an unseen hand pushed him into the portal, and into Shar's sanctum.

"Hello, pet," Shar said, her voice demanding and alluring at once. His eyes, enhanced by Shar's magic to pierce the deepest darkness, made out her shadowy form in the pitch. She was reclining lazily on a divan made completely of shadowstuff, the building blocks of the Plane of Shadow. Like smoke, wisps of the shadowstuff curled into the air, and curled lazily about Shar's naked form. In another life, he might have found her body attractive, even arousing. But here, under her lash, he felt only fear and revulsion. Not at what he knew was coming, but knowing the dark, twisted magic that Shar commanded would trick his mind into enjoying what was about to come.

In the blink of a weary eye, his clothes were simply gone. He was naked, hairless, with gaunt features and sinewy limbs wrought from despair and malnourishment. Shar stood, and he watched the darkness wrap around her waist, girding her loins and forming into something like a penis where her vagina was. Except one could hardly call the new phallus a penis. In the Plane of Shadow, everything was a twisted, malformed image of its Prime Material Plane's representation. This "shadow cock," as it were, grew from Shar's clitoris in bulges, like too many stones stuffed into a small sock. The head of the cock was blunted, and oozed a viscous green liquid that Mikhail figured was an analog for human semen. Bile formed in the back of his throat, then forced itself out as he doubled over and wretched.

"Now, now, my sweet," she purred in an otherworldly voice. "Does my body not please you?"

Mikhail gasped for air, hands on his knees, and failed to respond.

"Answer me, swine!" she roared. Her anger rose and shook the floor Mikhail stood on. "How dare you ignore my question, you filthy excuse for a servant. I was going to take it easy on you today, because you've done well on my breeding grounds. But this...this I cannot abide. Kneel before your Queen, you pitiful creature!"

Compelled by Shar's vile magic, Mikhail knelt down before her, then turned so that his back was to her and braced his hands on the floor. He heard her approach, felt her cold hand spread open the cheeks of his ass, felt the...

*****

Mikhail's scream tore through the silent apartment, and he sat up straight, cloaked in a sheen of cold sweat. He looked around frantically, and swore he saw shadows crawling into themselves as he came to. Lura was not there, nor was Cyra. He was alone and, looking down, physically aroused, despite the waning terror. He slipped his hand under the covers and felt his shaft, wrapping his fingers around the base.

Eager to take his mind off the dream, he threw off the covers and began to stroke himself with a firm grip. The door opened quickly and Donnara barged in.

"Mikhail? Are you o...k..." Her eyes fixated on him as he paused mid-stroke. "Anything I can help with?"

Mikhail's grin was all she needed, and she darted to the bed, licking her lips and crawling between his legs. She thrust her hand inside her loose sleeping pants and began to stroke her nether lips while licking Mikhail's sack. He stroked faster and faster, eyes locked shut as Donnara lapped at his testes. His breath caught, and Donnara put her mouth over the head of Mikhail's cock just before a few spurts of salty-sweet cum shot out. She locked her lips over his member and drank his seed, swallowing hungrily.

She licked her lips clean and looked up at him, sitting on her knees.

"Thank you," he said, smiling kindly.

"My pleasure. Why did you scream?"

"Just a bad dream," he said. "It's nothing."

"You sure?" he nodded and closed his eyes. "Sleep tight then, handsome." She climbed off the bed and left, savoring the after-taste of cum in her mouth

*****

Cyra was almost alarmed. Her fingers were dancing rapidly over her clitoris and she watched herself in the mirror that Samon held. She wanted to see what transformation she had taken when he was fucking her the night before, but so far none of her orgasms or ministrations had triggered any sort of change. Orgasm shook her gently, and she released her over-sensitive clit. No changes had taken her.

"I don't know why it's not working," Samon said, sighing.

"Well," Cyra said, gasping, "I can't say I don't enjoy trying."

Samon glanced at her with bemusement. "I don't think there's much you wouldn't enjoy while naked," he said sardonically. She shrugged her shoulders and grinned. "I suppose that's enough experimentation for one morning. Your fingers...or something...has to be tired."

"I could handle another round or two, but I am quite hungry. Perhaps we could meet up with my companions for lunch?" Cyra prompted, pulling her pants up from a wrinkled pile on the floor. She stood and clasped a wide black belt around her taut waist, and smirked as Samon stared at the generous swell of her breasts, bare in the late morning sunlight. Her nipples, to his delight, were erect, turgid and insolent in their revelry.

Samon snapped himself out of his trance, and he stood, donning functional, casual breeches and a thin tunic, half-laced to reveal the sparse hair on his finely chiseled chest. Cyra, teasingly, slowly put on her clothes from the previous evening, when she noticed her obsidian fingernails had grown an inch and seemed sharper than before. She thought it strange, but considering Samon's account of the previous night, she dismissed it as a side-effect. Cyra did not like to dwell on things she could not understand, rather she let things run their course, trusting that answers would make themselves known in due time.

The couple were out the door and on their way to the Dreaming Dragon, hand in hand, and approaching the tavern when a contingent of plate-wearing guards approached them. "Samon Armanov, you will come with us by the order of Lord Armanov."

"Go away," Samon said. "I am just fine where I am."

"Lord Armanov demands your presence in his court," the guard persisted. "He directly ordered me to bring you home, that you have had enough slumming for one week."

"Slumming?" Cyra said. "Does he look like he's slumming to you?"

"By the looks of those horns, I'd say yes," the guard said, venom in his voice. "Mind your place, tiefling, this noble is above your station."

"Ware your tongue, Staven," Samon said, coming forward quickly. "By all rights you work for me as much as my father, and I'll have you drinking out of the gutters by nightfall if you speak in such a way to Lady Cyra."

"Or I'll just run you through," Cyra said, the muscles in her athletic body rigid with anticipation.

"You don't fill our gold coffers, lad," Staven said, "your father does. And he wants you home. We don't do what he wants, we get fired. We don't do what you want, you get paid. Now come with us or we'll make your pretty plaything something we can all enjoy."

"Try it," Cyra said. She reached for her daggers, and realized she had not brought them out the previous night. Growling with almost feral aggression, she widened her stance and arced her fingers, as if her fingernails were talons.

"Last chance, boy," Staven said as his guards drew swords, leering at Cyra.

"Don't do this," Samon pleaded. It was no use. Staven and his men converged on Cyra, and Samon lunged at the nearest attacker. He seized the man's sword hand, twisting it painfully and forcing the blade out of his grasp. A tug had the man doubled over, and Samon brought his knee into the guard's exposed midsection. A downward punch to the back of his neck had the guard face-first on the road, unconscious.

Samon went for the next guard, but the armored man had seen his comrade fall and was more prepared. He feinted with his blade, drawing Samon's guard away from his face, and then smashed his pommel against Samon's face. He followed with a punch from a steel-clad fist, sending Samon sprawling to the ground.

Cyra lunged at Staven, pushing away the man's sword and raking him across the face with her fingernails. To her surprise, four deep gashes crossed the man's face, deep and angry with rushing blood. She had rendered one of his eyes useless. She turned to the other guard as Staven fell to his knees, clutching his bloody face.

An arc of fiery red energy shot into the man before Cyra could attack, and he fell to his knees. Cyra saw Lura standing behind him, her Red Robe formed into a sturdy, tight but flexible low-neck top with long, flowing skirt over top of black leggings. The laces on her top were tied tight, keeping her precious chest in check, and her hand was thrust out, still sparkling with ruby red magic.

"Forgive me, Mistress," the man said as he began to knee-walk toward Lura. The drow ignored him and walked over to Cyra, pulling the tiefling into a tight hug, kissing her on the lips and cheeks.

"Are you alright, Cyra?" Lura asked.

"Fine," Cyra said, lifting her bloodstained hand to her face. "I suppose. I'm not sure, but I think there's something wrong with my hand."

Lura looked at the cat-like claws that had formed where Cyra's fingernails had been. As she gazed upon them, they slowly reverted back to their normal, obsidian fingernail state. "I've heard of this before, in the Dancing Rose. Every now and then, we would get certain followers of Sharess. Not clerics or anything like that, or the usual revelers and deviants, but something else. Something more militaristic. They called themselves celebrants of Sharess."

"I've heard of this, but never understood their order," Cyra said as Lura knelt to revive and heal Samon's wounds. Sune's magic flowed from Lura's hands in a golden glow, and Samon began to stir.

"Apparently, they are a part of an ancient order of Sharess, from when she was simply the goddess of cats, and fought against Set, from the east. They follow her edicts now, following their passions and the like, but do not neglect her old ways, righting wrongs, fighting evil, that kind of thing." Lura and Cyra helped Samon to his feet, and he was looking down at Lura's cleavage when the drow began speaking again. "I fought with some of them, and they had amazing cat-like abilities, and some even had the ability to transform their fingers into claws. It appears Sharess has found you worthy of such an honor, being the brutally efficient fighter that you are," Lura finished with a wink to Samon. "Come, there is mutton and ale within."

When Lura turned back to the Dreaming Dragon, Cyra grabbed Samon by the arm and turned him to her. "A simple busboy? You lied to me, Samon."

"Perhaps now is not the best time to explain," Samon said. Cyra's glare was unrelenting though, and he sighed. "I'm sorry, Cyra, I did not want you to think less of me. I didn't want you to think that I was slumming, because I don't feel like I am any better than anybody else in this city. I wanted you to see me for what I was, not what my station is."

"What you are remains to be seen," Cyra said, quelling her anger. "Next time, though, just tell me the truth. Hammer, a barbarian that traveled with Lura and I before we came here, had a philosophy that I respected, and still live by. 'Speak plainly, speak truthfully, or do not speak at all.'"

"I will remember that," Samon said. "I truly am sorry, Cyra."

The tiefling looked over her shoulder at him, the fire in her eyes simmering still, but her demeanor softened at his apologetic expression. She took a few quick strides to him and grabbed his elbow, pulling him to her and kissing him on the lips. "It's done, Samon. Let's go...you've yet to meet my friends...at least, not with their clothes on."

He smiled at her. "It was quite a sight though," he said.

"Oh, I know, trust me. Don't get too excited though, nobody's fucking during lunch," she said, pulling him along to the Dreaming Dragon. The tiefling had more on her mind than a simple fib told by her current lover. She had always considered herself a follower of Sune, but if Lura was correct, then Sharess was showing her special attention, and she couldn't be sure why. Not yet, at least. But, as Cyra generally deals with perplexing and confusing circumstances, she ignored it, accepted the change and moved forward accordingly.

She entered the tavern, and found that it was eerily quiet. Lura and Mikhail sat at one of the larger corner tables, along with Benefast and Donnara. The drow beckoned to Cyra and Samon, and they joined them around a giant platter of steamed vegetables and roasted pork. Cyra reached for a large piece of meat and placed it on a plate before her seat. "What's going on?"

"We're discussing the future of the Dreaming Dragon," Benefast said.

"And Sune's presence in Everlund," Lura said, a coy smile on her face. Cyra admired the sweeping neckline Lura's Red Robe affected for the occasion, and the sculpt of Lura's shoulders and arms, poorly hidden by the thin straps of the Robe.

"We're considering forming a Festhall to honor Sune, Sharess, and Lliira out of the Dreaming Dragon. It would maintain the same name and ownership, but Lura, Sune's Chosen, would administrate the festivities, revelries, all the things that those three, the Loving Triumvirate if you will, stand for," Donnara said, a twinkle in her eye.

"Sounds great," Cyra said. "What's keeping the final decision from being made?"

"Size," Mikhail chimed in. "I have some background in these things, and frankly, a Festhall like the Dancing Rose would never work in a building this size, impressive though it is. We would need to expand, build a basement dedicated to steam baths and the like, more lodging area and a larger main hall."

"Negotiate with our neighbors," Cyra said. "We should be able to convince them to go into business with us."

Benefast indicated the north wall. "Old Branley will go along with it. He's as lascivious as they come, even in his old age. I'm sure he'd offer close shop immediately and work for us. It's Dandril we have to worry about. He's a staunch purist."

"I'll handle him," Cyra said. "Me and Samon, actually. He is a lord's son, after all." She winked at him sarcastically, and he just smiled.

"Very well then," Lura said. "Let's get to work. Mikhail and I will go see Branley with the proposal, Benefast and his half-sister can draw up expansion plans, and you take Samon to see Dandril."

"Not before I eat," Cyra said. "Stallion over here has worked up yet another appetite in me after breakfast." Lura grinned at the two, bemused.

*****

Lura walked arm in arm with Mikhail to the next building, where the old cobbler Branley had worked for decades. When the two walked into the quaint shop, they were surprised to find the old man was only half man. Subtly pointed ears poked out of the thin shroud of silvery hair that danced around his shoulders. He was a half-elf, and like much older than she had previously assumed.

"Greetings, Master Cobbler," Lura said in a smooth, honeyed voice, strangely lilting with her drow accent. The aged cobbler craned his head over a workbench and stood immediately.

"Corellon bless my eyes, a drow in my shop. I never thought I'd see the day," he said in a throaty, deep voice. "And so lovely, my eyes must deceive me. To what do I owe the pleasure, Lady..."

"Lura," she said. "I am surprised at the welcome."

"Elves are elves in Corellon's eyes, and you wear the robes of a Sunite. There is nothing wicked about you, my dear, except perhaps what you do to that young fellow in the bedchamber," he said, winking lasciviously at Mikhail. "Come, come! Sit. What can I do for you?"

"Well, first, if you would be so kind, you could humor my curiosity. You recognize my robe?" Lura asked, one delicate eyebrow arched as she sat, her hand in Mikhail's.

"Of course, my dear. I've been around for more than a century and I've seen more than one Chosen of Sune pass through here. Always running from Shar, or some such, they are. You aren't running, are you?"

"No," Lura said, a cloud crossing her features at the mention of Shar. "No, sir, we are here to expand the presence of Sune, and were wondering if you would concede your shop to the Dreaming Dragon to further that cause. We are aiming to form a--"

"Say no more," Branley said. "For Sune, for Lura, I will do such a thing, but on two conditions."

"Name them," Mikhail said hastily, but pleasantly.

"First off, I get to work for the Dreaming Dragon, making a wage comparable to the business I do on my own," he said, businesslike.

"Done," Lura said, smiling.

"Second," Branley started, looking more closely at Lura. "A kiss. And a hug. Please, it has been a long time since an elven beauty, drow or otherwise, has paid any heed to this aged half-elf."

Lura smiled, eyes sparkling with Sune's grace as she stood, walking like a willow toward the older half-elf. He was handsome, in a distinguished kind of way, and that made it easier for her to bend at the waist and kiss him gently on the lips, hands on his cheek, then wrap her arms around his shoulders in a gentle, warm embrace.

"You've made me a happy man, Lura of Sune. Tell Benefast that he has my concession and loyalty," Branley said, smiling.

"Thank you, Master Branley. You deserve your happiness and Sune's blessing," she said. She held her hands on his shoulders and closed her eyes, channeling Sune's divine grace into the half-elf. Before Mikhail's eyes, he took on the build and look of a Branley half the age he should have been. Branley looked at Lura, a twinkle in his eyes, then turned to a polished window pane, seeing his translucent reflection within and smiling wide.

"Mistress Lura, you are a fine lass. Corellon bless you and your bonded lover," Branley said. Lura's smile tempered somewhat, but she turned and left, Mikhail in her wake. She was uncharacteristically silent as they walked the short distance to the Dreaming Dragon, and Mikhail stopped her when they reached the door.

"Lura," he said, placing his hand gently, but firmly on her shoulder. "What did he mean by bonded lover? What is that?"