Sex and the Spellplague

Greta had been sleeping soundly, for the most part. She had not been very happy the last several days, what with her trusted friend, Varla, spending most nights with her face buried either in that trollop Iliara's thighs, or a mound of dream dust. But still, after a few hours of self-loathing in bed, Greta found sleep easily enough. The loud slam of her apartment door roused her from that escape quickly, though. She slid out of bed, a silk shift the only thing covering her. The night was brisk in her apartment, alone in her bed, and her puffy nipples tented the soft fabric.

Then she saw Varla stumbling around in the living area of her apartment. Immediately, the former servant rushed in, thin candles the only thing offering light. Varla fell into her embrace, and Greta stumbled to their couch, pulling the slim woman with her so that she could sit between her legs. Varla rested her head against Greta's voluptuous thigh, her crimson hair spilling over the creamy skin, but the plumper blonde gasped in horror when Varla finally looked up.

Dark rings lined her eyes and blood was caked below her nose and mouth. Bruises were dark around her neck, shaped like fingers, and Greta finally noticed that the woman's evening gown was torn to shreds around her thighs. "Varla," she breathed, "what happened?"

"Nothing, dear, don't worry about it," Varla croaked. Her voice was hoarse, likely from screaming, she figured. But Greta was worried, horrified, and terrified all at once for her former mistress. Varla had become her closest friend after they left the Armanov Estate, and now she was in her lap, bruised, broken and bloodied for unknown reasons.

"Tell me," Greta demanded, voice choked with sobs and fresh tears running freely down her round face. Varla's eyes rolled back into her skull momentarily, her head falling back onto Greta's knee. She saw crystalline powder still coating the underside of her nose, and her heart fell a thousand feet. The crimson haired woman refocused.

"It was a fair trade," the woman said, then slipped into unconsciousness.

Greta, anger welling up in her breast, drug Varla to the bed, then donned more appropriate clothing for public and removed herself from Varla. She stormed out of the apartment and made her way down the hall to Lura's apartment. There were no sounds of passion coming from the other side, so she simply opened it. Mikhail was there, but he was alone, surprisingly enough, and asleep. She closed the door and left without awakening him. Greta walked back the way she came, toward the stairs that would lead her to the common room of the tavern, but heard the drow's voice coming from a room nearby.

Greta pushed open the door and saw Lura with Hammer. She didn't know what they were discussing, but both had alarmed expressions on their face, and the barbarian looked as if he was primed for battle. They both noticed Greta's frightful expression and rushed over to her.

"What's the matter, girl," Hammer said. His baritone voice was soothing to her bloodied heart.

"It's Varla," she said, and she was overcome by sobs.

"She has been using the dust," Lura said. She'd known now for a while, but hadn't brought herself to council the Armanov scion. "Go, Hammer. See what you can get from her."

The barbarian rushed out and Greta could hear his heavy footfalls as he stormed down the hallway. "There are people preying on the refugees, Greta," Lura said. "Gangs have been sprouting up, even the High Lord doesn't know from where. We've been asked to get to the bottom of this while the rest of the Temple District helps the gathered masses outside the walls. We had just gotten word of a rap and possible murder very near this place. Let us pray to Sune that it wasn't Varla."

Hammer threw open Varla's door and saw her on her hands and knees, a pool of vomit beneath her and a shattered mirror on the bed above her. She had a shard of glass in her hand, squeezing it tightly even as blood began to seep from her palm. There was a small collection of sparkling dust on the floor in front of her face, and she seemed to be staring at it intently. Hammer didn't break stride as he walked over to her, wrapped his thick arms around her waist and heaved her off the ground like so many feathers. She began thrashing about immediately, muttering something about gold and begging for mercy. He dropped her on the bed, away from the broken mirror, and put his bear-like hands on her face.

"Varla, Varla!" he shouted at her until she focused her eyes on his, and when she recognized the barbarian, she settled a little. "I'm here to help, Varla," he said quietly, and tears welled in her eyes. "Who did this to you?"

She whimpered and her broken lips trembled as she started looking around frantically. "They were in the alley," she said in a thin voice. "I don't remember their names...one of them calls himself Stick, I don't know why."

"Which alley?" Hammer asked, crystal blue eyes boiling with rage.

"Two streets down," she said, her eyes starting to roll around and her mouth hanging open weirdly. Hammer laid her head on the pillow, and her body on its side, then left, fists clenched.

"Hammer," Ambrusia called from the bar when she saw Hammer cruising through a throng of people, several of them unceremoniously pushed out of his way. He stopped and let her approach. "You look like you're about to fight something."

"Hopefully," he said. "Stay here, I fear that the Dragon may need protection."

Ambrusia stiffened immediately. She had fallen out of the constant vigilance she normally maintained in light of the relaxed, easy-going nature of the Dreaming Dragon. Hammer's warning, though, brought that back to full force, and her keen eyes began scouring the throng of people already within. With a stiff nod of her head, Ambrusia watched Hammer plow through the main entrance.

The barbarian was more at home in the realm outside of city walls than within, but he was cunning, with an insight greater than one might attribute him. The scents and sounds around him told him much. Stale liquor, the pungent, albeit miniscule scent of vomit, and unwashed bodies was in the air, though he doubted many of the native Everlunians would notice it. There was a shattering of glass, distant laughter, and gruff voices. That wasn't his target, though. It was too far away.

Something prickled the skin at the back of his neck. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw shadowed figures deep in an alley. He shifted his head only slightly to get a better view, but kept walking. Four men and another figure, hunched over, perhaps on their knees, were at the end of the alley, shrouded in shadow. A violent strike caused a loud crack of bone and slap of skin to echo down the alley. The distinct scent of pipeweed laced with some alchemical mixture told him this was his destination. As a good barbarian should, he simply turned into the alley and marched into the bleak darkness.

They were completely oblivious to the barbarian until his massive bulk blocked out what little light lit the alley. He realized they all had their cocks out, and they were standing around a woman who was on her knees and appeared nearly unconscious.

"What—" Hammer cut him off by clamping his massive hand over the man's face and slamming the back of his skull into the brick wall behind him. Gore splattered onto the wall as the force of the blow tore skin and shattered skull. One man turned to leave, but Hammer's fist caught him squarely on the side of his head, leaving him in a crumpled heap as he was propelled into the adjacent wall. The remaining two stood facing him, brandishing crude daggers. One stabbed at his expansive chest, but the barbarian grabbed the knife by the blade, drawing blood from his own hand, then turned it and its owner's wrist awkwardly to jam the dull knife up through his jaw, and subsequently his brain.

The last man standing dropped his knife and put his hands up in a placating gesture. Bloodlust pumping his veins, Hammer had a hard time staying a slaying blow. He grabbed the small man by his shoulders and shoved him into the wall, but not hard enough to break much. "Who are you? Who do you work for?" he roared.

"P-p-please," he said weekly in response, "I just work the streets, I don't know the boss." The stench of urine filled the alley but Hammer was heedless of it.

"Who do you go to!"

"Man named Mask!" the doomed pusher said. "Please, I'm just doing what I'm told!"

Hammer nodded his head down at the void woman kneeling in a daze, beaten, broken and likely highly intoxicated. "Is that what your orders say?" Hammer asked, a threatening growl in his voice.

The man smiled nervously. "Hey, c'mon man," he said, his voice nervous. "She was willing, I swear to the gods!"

"I can smell your lies," Hammer said in a chilling calm. "And to double your damnation, you raped and beat my friend, Varla."

"That slut?" the man said, eyes flashing. "She had it coming, and if you're a friend of hers, then you know she likes it rough. Besides, she hasn't paid us in two tendays. We were told to make sure she doesn't forget her debts."

"Where can I find your boss," Hammer asked, releasing the man and turning to find something blunt and sturdy. He found a carpenter's hammer laying in a pile of rubbish and seized it, turning to face the horrified man. "You will save yourself a world of pain if you simply tell me know."

"D'you think you can hurt me any more than he can?" the man asked.

"No. But I will kill you quickly if you tell me," Hammer said, his grip on the mallet tightening.

The man shivered in fear. "F-fine," he said. "He always meets in the temple district, an hour past midnight." He seemed to accept his fate then. "Just make it quick."

Hammer nodded and took the mallet in his hand. He broke off half of the hammer's handle and jammed it through the man's eye socket and into his brain. Blood spurted out onto his forearm as he held the twitching man aloft, then released and let the man fall to the ground. Scowling, he scooped up the battered woman and carried her away to the Dreaming Dragon.

*****

"It is as I feared," Lura said, sitting deep into the booth she, Mikhail, Cyra, and Hammer shared. She put her face in her smooth palms and ran her hands through her long hair. The crimson strands that marked her as Chosen of Sune hooked under her jaw line. A deep, ragged breath filled her lungs. "Why is it that mankind simply cannot come together in a time of need? Why must there always be those who wish to profit from others' misfortune, especially in such a crisis?"

Mikhail put a hand on her forearm and watched as moisture collected in her eyes. "What can we do?" Mikhail asked, looking to Cyra and Hammer.

"That depends," Hammer said, resting his massive forearms on the table and breathing out a deep breath. "How many casualties are you willing to risk?" He was only half serious.

"We have to meet with this fellows boss," Cyra said, "and Iliara is likely the best person for the job."

"No," Lura said, shaking her head. "Iliara was an assassin, not a spy, and she may be tied in too closely with these people. There was a time not too long ago where she partook in all manner of substances."

"Then who?" Mikhail asked. Lura's jaw clenched.

"Matron Mother Luriia Torvirr," Lura said. Her eyes darkened as she felt her past, something she'd thought long forgotten, well up into her psyche.

"Lura, no," Cyra said, shaking her head. She pursed her plump lips and glared at the drow. "You left that life behind long ago, there's no sense in resurrecting it."

"There is no other choice," Lura said. "Who would gain more from a human city in discord than a matron mother from Menzoberranzan? Even a rogue house would capitalize on such a thing."

"A tiefling!" Cyra said, pushing herself past Hammer as she stood out of the booth. "Anything other than you!"

"Relax, my dear," Lura said, smiling from her seat. "I intend to have you at my side regardless. And a legion of drow mercenaries."

That perked up Mikhail and Hammer. "What in the Nine are you talking about?" Mikhail asked. "Where are you going to find an army of drow to serve you? You don't belong to them anymore?"

"My love," Lura said, "trust me. There are more drow in this city than you would ever want to believe, and what's more, most of them would be eager to join our cause."

"She is correct," Hammer said, realizing what she was insinuating. "My people have come across these so-called 'goodly drow.' They were servants of Eilistraee, but apparently something happened to their goddess and no longer like being called 'drow.'"

"Indeed?" Lura asked, unaware of this. "Do you know any?"

"Some," Hammer said. "I fought many of them, and several died at my hand. They were very quick to forgive my misunderstanding, though. I thought they were raiding an elven village and charged in to defend them. They simply were returning from a hunt."

"Some misunderstanding," Mikhail said.

"Where is this village?" Lura asked. "Can you take me there?"

"It is not far from here; we can leave before noon and be there by midnight," Hammer said.

"Very good. Mikhail, I need you, Ambrusia, and Cyra to gather as many of the clerics and able fighters that Sune has here and keep a patrol. Recruit from the militia if you need to," Lura said.

"How am I to express authority over them?" he asked. Lura opened her hand, palm up, and showed it to Mikhail. She whispered a few words and a golden ring appeared with the High Lord's seal on it.

"Show this to them, and they will follow. All the militia, city guard, and conscripted army know that this ring only belongs to a few high-up individuals. They will do as you say," she said assuredly. He took the ring and looked at her with worry in his eyes.

"I still don't know about this, Lura," he said.

"It will be fine, love," she said, putting her hands on his face and pulling him in for a kiss. "Trust me," she whispered, smiling at him. "We will return on the morrow, hopefully with an army of dark elves in our shadows." Mikhail returned her smile, even if it was tempered slightly.

Hammer and Lura left immediately and strode through the brisk early morning air toward a stable outside of the city. They had small packs slung over their shoulders for their brief jaunt, and were dressed for riding. Hammer wore thick leather leggings that tucked into fur-lined boots and a heavy wool tunic that clung obstinately to his arms, shoulders, and chest. He left the collar untied so that the heavy wool wouldn't choke him. His sword, a weapon he rarely used these days, was at home in a bear's fur sheath strapped to the horse. The barbarian, as always, kept his dark hair loose and unkempt, resting easily at his shoulders and never interfering with the piercing sapphire gaze of his eyes.

Lura, on the other hand, looked well-kept and pristinely cleansed, even for being dressed for the road. Her Red Robe of Sune took the form of a thick overcoat that hung down to her knees and covered her arms. Underneath, actual clothing guarded her body from the elements. Long black leggings extended down to her ankles beneath black, heavy leather boots that covered most of her shins. Covering her torso and her perfectly proportioned breasts was a thick, cream-colored blouse that was tied all the way up to her breasts. Lura wouldn't dare cover up her cleavage, no matter the elements. There were very simple spells she could use to keep herself comfortable, regardless. She saw no reason to keep her best features covered completely. Thus her breasts, solid handfuls for herself, but likely only big enough for Hammer's palm, glistened in the nearly noon sun.

But the weather was not on their side. Menacing black and gray clouds loomed to the west, where Hammer said they were bound, and her elven eyes could see ribbons of water pouring from those towering clouds.

"We will ride until we near the rain," Hammer said, "then make camp." A bolt of lightning shot between clouds, causing Lura to jump a little in her saddle. Several moments later, a rumble of thunder filled the sky. She looked back in the direction of Everlund and her slowly diminishing walls, fearful and aware of the refugees' plight. But Lura put it out of her mind. She had to. The drow put her trust in the temple district that they would care for the increasingly hopeless wanderers. She turned her eyes forward, at first to the storm clouds, then to Hammer's muscular frame. Sooner than she might have cared to admit, her mind was fully from the refugees and centered around the endless pleasures the barbarian could offer her. With the ride suddenly slowed and their need to make camp, perhaps...

Mikhail. She shook her head, trying to remove her thoughts of Hammer and replace them with her human lover. Sighing, she cast her eyes to the horse's head, doing everything in her power to keep her thoughts on anything but Hammer's chest, shoulders, arms, thighs, cock...

She sighed again. "It's going to be a long night," she muttered to herself, "and he's not going to make it easy. I think I'm already sodding wet."

With the wind whipping at her back, it never occurred to Lura that anything she said would be carried easily to the barbarian's ears. He smiled at himself, knowing full well that the drow wasn't thinking of the rain or the trials of sleeping on the road. He felt his own body respond to the thoughts that entered his mind, but with willpower only a barbarian could muster, he crushed those thoughts with others. The image of his former wife in bed with his brother entered his mind as well as Mikhail. He wouldn't let the man experience what he had. Sighing, he silently agreed with Lura. It would be a long night, indeed.

*****

The storm clouds had moved faster than Hammer had anticipated and their pace had not carried them to the shelter of trees quickly enough. Thus, he and Lura trudged on horseback through a steady downpour until the ground grew treacherous for the horses. They dismounted, and the dense mud sucked at their boots with every step, but the two remained stoic and silently trudged forward until a dense canopy of leaves protected them from a majority of the rainfall.

Hammer set his pack on the relatively dry ground and tied off both horses to a tree before beginning his search for some firewood. Lura pursed her lips as she watched the barbarian. His tunic clung to his massive torso like a second skin, and she could see the muscles rippling beneath. She shed her Red Robe and hung it from a tree branch. She needed only invoke the innate magic of the garment to dry it, but now her body was more exposed for Hammer's enjoyment. She wore no undergarments to support her breasts and the chill in her bones from the rain caused her nipples to stiffen painfully against the thick fabric of her blouse. And her robe had not completely protected her from the elements: some of the rain had seeped through and her black skin was barely visible through the translucent garment.

Hammer couldn't help but notice Lura even as he circled their campsite looking for kindling and larger pieces of wood for extended burning. His baser instincts were calling to him like a ravenous animal. He was starving, too, and to make things worse he knew that the two would have to sleep in close proximity to each other and the fire to conserve heat. The canopy did wonders to stall the downpour, but the rain would continue to fall throughout the night, albeit slowly. What's more, they'd have to be up intermittently throughout the night to make sure the rain didn't kill their only heat source. He sighed. Barbarians were known for their willpower and stubbornness, but they were also known for their recklessness, especially in battle. What few considered, though, was that that recklessness came from a heightened passionate state. They believed in throwing themselves fully into whatever it was they were doing with steadfast determination and little regard for anything else.