Lathandriel's Quest: Prologue

Lathandriel Starheart was a man every bit as ridiculous as his name. Born of mixed human and elven parentage, he had seemingly received the strongest traits of each; from his elven mother came his grace, beauty and resistance to the ravages of time; from his human father - now deceased - came strength of body and spirit.

From both, it appeared, he had received his sexuality - a combination of elven promiscuity and openness with the insatiable lust of humanity.

He had matured quickly and aged slowly, having spent the past century as a man of his early twenties. Most elves were slight and slender, but Lathandriel's frame was carved of lean muscle. Like the elves of greenwood, he grew no hair except that on his brows and from his head, which fell in a robust mane down to his waist in a brilliant shade of violet, bright as any flower. Hair of such color was rare amongst the elves, and purple hair was considered an auspicious omen. He excelled in all pursuits physical; archery, swordplay, horseback riding, and of course, sex.

His father was an adventurer, who had come to love a beautiful elven woman, as well as the idyllic lifestyle of her people. They had retired together to her small village buried deep in the woods, and after much deliberation, decided to have one child: and thus Lathandriel was born.

His youth had been splendid and carefree. Exploring the woods, learning the arts of the adventurer and tales of the outside world from his father, and of course, seducing the beautiful maidens of the forest.

He remembered his first lover - a woman two hundred years his senior by the name of Elia Brightmoon - who had lain him down on the moss of the forest, beneath the light of the full moon, and rode him with tenderness and passion til they both came, and laid together with the warm summer air upon their skin.

There was Raina Strongbow, who taught him the ferocious lovemaking of warriors. He remembered the feeling of his hand twisted in her hair, her body arching back like the bow she carried, his cock driving into her pussy. He remembered how they would twist and roll, biting, slapping, kissing, choking, fucking, vying for dominance.

There was Lyra Flowersong, who taught him to bring a woman to ecstasy with hand and mouth, the delicate art of communication and empathy, and the secrets of lovemaking that do not come by instinct. She had seen the fire of lust growing in the young man, and saw fit that he should be instructed in the ways of love play, so that his lover's might never regret their choices.

There was High Priestess Andiria, the Moonspeaker, who communicated the will of heaven and earth to her people. She had taken him at the ritual of the spring equinox, as the priestess must take a lover every equinox, before all the village to see. He had lain her down on the ceremonial altar, his arms grasping hers, her golden hair spilling out behind her, his cock thrusting in and out of her sex. Many women of the village sought him as a lover after that, awed and enticed by his adroitness, his passion, and the exoticism given to him by his human parentage. The high priestess had declared him to the living incarnation of Arahu, the spirit of love and lust - perhaps he was.

There had been threesomes, foursomes, and orgies. He remembered the sight of Aria and Alia, twin sisters, sucking his cock, how one would swallow the shaft while the other's mouth was on his testicles. He remembered taking three beautiful women at once, each bent over the edge of his bed, his cock in one while his fingers made the other two cry in delight.

The elves of the greenwood had few of the sexual taboos that fill mortal society. Age meant little in the choice of mates amongst the elvenfolk, as the ever-young did not age as mortal men do. Monogamy, as well, was a foreign concept to them, as none could imagine forswearing the joys of new sexual experience for the centuries they lived.

The elves were, to be sure, a promiscuous people, but it was a slow sort of promiscuity. They did not, as mortal youths did, succumb to the instant fires of lust that the naive call "love at first sight," but let their affections gradually grow with the years. With the obvious exception, of course, of Lathandriel.

But still, with all its pleasures, the woods of the elvenfolk could not hold him forever. A point had come, quite simply, where he had run out of lovers. From his human ancestry came that particular lust, the lust for the new, for the unexplored. It was the wanderlust, the desire to see the world, to have new adventures, to sleep with new women.

His sendoff had been a bittersweet affair - his village had loved him, and would miss him, but understood that he must go. He had been presented with fine gifts that he still bore with him: a shirt of mail so fine it seemed to be liquid silver, fitted to the contours of his body (well known to the armouress, for she had been amongst his lovers too); a sword of the finest steel, forged over the course of ten years, a weapon of such craftsmanship that it made the mightiest blades of men seem as roughshod farmtools; a white elven steed, swift as the wind and tireless as the ocean, to carry him on his way into his new life.

The celebration that sent him off had been of finest elven fashion, filled with feasting, wine, music, poetry, and dancing through the day. As the day gave way to night, that the party turned to orgy. He had been blessed with indomitable stamina, and made love to more women than he could count that night, as each of his lovers, past and present, made a final farewell.

In the morning, he bathed, dressed, gathered his things, and rode off into the sunrise.