Tyran stroked her soft, silvery-blonde hair as she sat on her high seat, her golden eyes beaming down at those that had come to this place of worship. She was beautiful by all mortal standards, and she knew it. There was no argument to be had. Orc, dwarf, halfling, gnome, elf...they all lusted after her, she knew. It was one of the facts that kept her smile from diminishing into a baleful, wicked scowl.
She stood, the music ending, her golden robe shimmering all around her resplendent form. The pinnacle of mortal beauty, she held herself high, proud, and haughty, always looking down her nose. She approached the lectern—a monument of gold and marble, bedazzled with gemstones precious and rare, mined from the deepest reaches of the Underdark—and smiled at her congregation.
"My treasured followers," she said, her voice echoing off the great marble columns and stained glass windows. "My treasured acolytes and disciples. Welcome, and well met, this beautiful day of Kythorn. May Sune, Lathander, and Tymora all smile upon you. May Beshaba keep her gaze from you. May Torm and Helm watch over you. And may all the celestials go before you."
"And with you," the all responded in unison. A thousand adoring voices, all returning her blessings with a smile on their lips. She spoke uplifting words, warnings of folly, and bequeathed her people to help their fellows in their times of need. And, most of all, to donate their hard earned copper, silver, and gold to the Celestial Temple, that she may further the causes of all the goodly gods of Toril.
And when they all left, and all her acolytes had retired to their third-story quarters, she retired to her private room, a fair chunk of the coinage ferried by two hulking men wearing naught but brown robes and skullcaps. She pushed open her massive, ornate doors, and the men, mutes both, carried sacks of coin in with her. She dismissed them with a wave of her hand and relished in the lavishness of her living arrangements. She shed her robe, revealing her naked body—one of her many, many indulgences was speaking to all the followers of the gods wearing only her golden robe, and nothing else—to the candlelight of her private room. She meticulously counted the coins, tossing them into magical coffers—one for copper, one for silver, one for gold, and one for gemstones and platinum coins.
She placed the coffers in her large bureau, locking and speaking a magical phrase to ward the doors from prying hands. She was, at best, paranoid about her precious belongings being stolen or vandalized. Her golden eyes surveyed every aspect of every room she entered, searching for threats and traps. Satisfied, for now, that her room was safe, she pulled shut the heavy silk curtains on her windows, knowing full well that the candlelight would silhouette her perfect body against the curtains for any passersby. She cared not; let them look, let them hunger for her unattainable decadence.
Finally, she sat at her small, superbly crafted desk, pressed right up against the wall next to her bureau, and methodically began stripping the symbols of the deities she "served," placing Sune's visage face-down in a drawer, Lathander's sunrise inside a metal box to block the light, Tymora's coin in a black, torn pouch, and Helm and Torm's gauntlets under her desk. Each symbol was stitched into pristine white silk. Beneath them was her true heart and her true desire: the Black Sun of Cyric, Mad God of Lies.
What delicious treachery and trickery! Surely, she thought, the Mad One would approve of her ways. Indeed, from what communing she'd enjoyed with his servants, she was reasonable to believe so. They had fucked her, defiled her beauty, and thoroughly debased her as a way of showing Cyric's approval for her service.
Naked and bare before the black sun and ashen skull symbol, the hollow orbits examining her beauty and nudity, she splayed her legs wide and began rubbing herself, slapping herself, pinching and twisting her turgid nipples, turning the light brown areolae a shade redder under the torment. Her orgasm came quickly, as it always did, and her mind filled with the chaos and deceit of Cyric's insanity. Such connection was only possible thanks to the nature of her heritage.
The woman, a sorceress who's magic came directly from the domains of the gods, was aasimar, the offspring of a celestial being and mortal, neither of which she knew as parents. She had been orphaned on this Material Plane by them both, for reasons unknown to her, but known to Cyric, she knew—or rather, she believed, for why would the Prince of Lies speak falsely to her, of all his servants? She grinned at that twisted belief, understanding fully the deception and reveling in it.
"Cyric," she breathed, rubbing the nectar of her cunt over her lips like an exotic lip-paint, and leaned forward, kissing the symbol of Cyric. She fell into meditation, feeling the magic coursing through her veins, filling her very being with power beyond reckoning. Rising up, she drew a black silk robe about her body, cinching it tight about her waist, and walked the halls of her temple, bolstered by Cyric's treachery growing in her heart.
The counsel chamber was her second home, where she went during midday and just before nightfall, to offer advice to her followers. Advice that was, at its very heart, meant to mislead her patrons and trick them into actions that very well may ruin their very livelihood. Her grin was almost lascivious as she pulled the curtain shut and spread her robe open. She sat their naked, fingers buried in her pussy as her first patron entered the adjoining chamber. The screen between them masked her appearance from them, but they all knew she was there. And by the end of the hours she would spend in there, it would smell like her orgasms.
"Favored Soul," the first patron said. Tyran couldn't place her gender, for her voice was very strange, and her gaze, augmented by magic, saw right through the screen to the black-clad, white-skinned creature that seemed to be a blank slate as far as race and gender went.
"Child," she purred, her sweet voice made sweeter by a touch of magic. "Who are you?"
The person on the other side hesitated. "I thought..." she started, but shook her head. Tyran grinned at the white, featureless orb of a head shaking back and forth. How cute! "My name is Tyche."
"Tyche, how can I help you this day?"
"I am troubled," she said. "I have taken on duties I am not accustomed to, and I am afraid."
"Ah," Tyran said, taking a guess. "Prostitution? Whoring isn't so bad, my dear. Just be careful," she started to say, but the changeling shook its head again.
"No, no," she said, voice drifting off. "This is wholly anonymous?"
"Only I will ever know what you've spoken here," she lied. She shared some of the more vile and villainous stories with the select few she knew walked in the same light as she.
"I work for the Temple of Mask," she said. "I am an agent and operative, stealing secrets, and killing when I need to."
"There is no Temple of Mask in this city, little one," Tyran said with absolute certainty. She knew that Cyric had taken much from Mask, decades ago, and was certain that if there
were
another temple here, she would have heard about it.
"There is," Tyche said, but bit down quickly, clearly hesitant to say more than that. What a good secret-keeper! Of course, Tyran knew ways around that.
"Tell me of it," Tyran said, her magic coursing with her voice to make the changeling respond accurately and truthfully. A neat trick coming from a servant to the God of Lies.
"No," the changeling replied, setting Tyran back in her seat. She stopped idly fingering her cunt.
"Please, my dear, I must know more if I am to help you."
"Just...my mistress demands much from me, and expects much from me. I do not want to let her down. Is there anything you can do?"
Tyran sighed, looking down at the floor, at the black sun symbol artfully hidden in the woodwork, as if looking to Cyric for guidance. Surely he wouldn't want her aiding an agent of Mask, but what was she to do?
"Whatever she commands of you, do it to your fullest capability," Tyran said, frustrated. "And if you fail, then accept that you are not good enough for her."
The changeling sat up straighter. Her eyes narrowed and her face took the shape of a human woman, golden hair flowing from her bare scalp. Her breasts grew large, her body filling out with womanly, delicious curves. Tyran couldn't believe her magical eyes when she was looking at a half-decent mimicry of her own body. The changeling left the booth in a hurry, leaving Tyran there to ruminate on the encounter.
Her next patron was more her speed. Relationship issues, the likes of which she would weave into tawdry tales without regard to privacy at the next meeting she had with those she considered friends. She tuned out most of the tale, only bothering to note the important details: affair with noble girl, half the man's age, and wife was starting to get suspicious of the way he looked at the fourteen-year-old girl whenever she meandered past their trade-stall. This was the kind of story that would get the man killed, if the wrong ears heard it.
"Write a letter to the girl's father, exclaiming her love for the girl, declaring your intent to leave your wife and take her as your own," Tyran said, smirking as her fingers dipped deep into her loins, curling right against the little bundle of nerves within.
"Are...are you sure?" the man asked, clearly uncertain.
