Lura had never seen such pain before. An epidemic had spread across the entire world, most often called the Spellplague due to its propensity to attack anything magical in nature. The region she lived in, the Silver Marches, had been mostly unaffected, with her home city Everlund and Silverymoon becoming bastions for victims all around. Initially, the gates of their respective cities had been thrown wide open, but now, with refugees overflowing into the streets, they had been shut. That had not stopped most, though. She was high up in the Dreaming Dragon, the tavern that had become as much a Festhall for Sune as a drinking hole, in a newly built third floor, and she could see over the tall walls of Everlund. Plumes of smoke, rising languidly from dozens of campfires all around the city, obscured the horizon.
Her heart swelled for those people, suffering on the outside. Clerics from all the temples in Everlund had banded together to conjure food for the refugees, but with magic even of a divine nature not entirely reliable, there was not much they could do. She sighed. Even though her connection with Sune was relatively untouched by the Spellplague, the rest of her life was beginning to suffer. Mikhail had grown distant the more time she spent trying to aid those in need. Not that she could blame him; they had not lain together in almost a month, relegating them both to masturbation whenever the time was right. She was not the only one hard at work. Mikhail had taken up the call to aid, as well, and spent most of the daylight hours working kitchens, keeping order, and doing whatever else he could to maintain some semblance of order during this worldwide crisis.
Lura sighed again, taking a few steps from her window to the thickly cushioned chair next to her and Mikhail's bed. Even now, the man was busy with Donnara and Benefast gathering foodstuffs and other necessary materials for the night's soup kitchen. She smiled as she thought of his return, even though she knew she would be leaving shortly thereafter. Lura's connection with Sune, being Lady Firehair's Chosen, made her the most powerful religious leader in the entire region. Therefore, she had the largest duty to those in need. She would spend sunset through midnight wading through the sea of refugees outside the city in an attempt to heal and mend those in need.
But that did not quell the liquid heat building between her thighs. The drow, horny as she had ever been, would not let a global crisis keep her from climaxing. Without such pleasure, she feared, she might go insane. Her Red Robe, a gift from Sune herself, spread of its own volition. She was pleased that at least that had retained its magical properties. Her breasts, pert, obsidian mounds of generous heft, rested on her chest with a comfortable weight, capped with dark violet nipples and areolas that stood painfully (delightfully) rigid.
She closed her eyes, her mind focusing on the image she most desired. Mikhail stood before her, clad only in a thin cloth wrapped around his waist. The drow looked hungrily at the thick silhouette hanging underneath it. She willed her lover to remove the cloth, and she smiled to herself as her mind's eye saw his impressive shaft. It was thick, thicker than most drow's she had ever known, and hairless. She imagined her hand wrapping around it, her black skin contrasting with the unusually tanned flesh of the nearly erect cock. Lura knew the sensation, knew what the cock felt like in her hand, even though she could not physically touch it.
But to imagine it was not enough. Were this any other time, she would have conjured a phantasmal cock, warm and sadistic in its ability to please, but she simply could not do that anymore. She reached into a drawer between her and the bed and pulled out the next best thing. It was long, almost as long as her forearm, and thicker than Mikhail's cock. The rubbery phallus was warm in her hand, and she ran her fingers over the stylized veins, over the ridge of the cock head, to the cleft at the tip. One hand returning to the moistened snatch between her thighs, she slipped the head of the faux dick into her mouth, wetting it and rolling her tongue around it as if it were Mikhail's. As she slid a finger into her sodden canal, so too did she slide her tongue up and down the shaft. Indeed, her tongue slid all the way to a suction cup at the base of the shaft, wetting it before she slid down to her knees on the polished wooden floor, planting the cock there and letting the suction up do the work.
Held firmly in place, Lura hovered over the thick, long shaft. She had not lowered herself, and still the tip of the rubber cock rubbed at her lips, as if the object was seeking entrance of its own volition. She was quick to appease it; Lura spread her pussy with both hands and watched as her cunny swallowed the pale rubber cock. The sensation overwhelmed her, and she almost fell to all fours as her pussy was stretched and spread, and subsequently filled as she lowered herself slowly until the tip of the cock pressed against her cervix. She grimaced slightly, but let out a profound sigh of relief. She leaned forward slowly, planting one hand on the smooth wood while sliding her other between her thighs to tend to her aching clitoris.
Her fingers rubbed furiously and she began to rock her hips violently on the rubber dick, stabilized by her other hand. She panted loudly, not wasting time in seeking out her own climax. The thickness of the cock inside her meant that her g-spot was never neglected. Her fingers on her clit provided firm, constant excitement, shooting like lightning up her spine. Molten heat spread through her limbs, through her blood and her gut seemed to curl in on itself as her liquid cunt contracted violently on the cock buried within. She grunted, as a beast in heat, then let out a long, low moan and felt warm moisture trickle down her thighs. Lura looked down to her quivering quim to see that she had squirted her essence around the fake cock and onto her thighs. There was a puddle on the ground. Shamelessly, she slid her fingers through the warm nectar and licked it clean, relishing in her own flavor.
Sighing contentedly, she slowly pulled herself off the floor, and plucked the dildo from the wood with a loud pop from the suction cup. With a minor cantrip, she had meant to dry the soaked shaft, but in her post-orgasmic bliss, her reasoning escaped her, and the cantrip misfired, instead spreading the moisture from the dildo all over her arm and hands. She sighed, not entirely upset by having her own nectar spread over her arms. Lura didn't bother attempting again, and placed the sodden toy in her drawer. She looked out to the sky, saw the sun high overhead, and let her Red Robe slip from her body. Naked and loving it, Lura slipped under the decadently soft covers of her bed for sleep before her nightly work began.
****
Cyra was genuinely exhausted. Her ruddy skin shone with a fine sheen of sweat, and she was certain there was a pool of the salty moisture hiding at the base of her heavy leather corset. It was nearly dusk now, and she had been patrolling the streets of Everlund with her human lover, Samon, since dawn. She wondered, not for the first time, why Samon, after inheriting his father's nobility, estate, and political station, insisted on doing the work that many of similar status would consider menial.
Not that she was complaining. Cyra exulted in the thrill of martial combat and exercise; she felt like physical exertion of any kind only added tribute to her physical body. Only a few minutes ago, she had disarmed and crippled someone who was attempting to mug one of the refugees dwelling in the shantytown outside Everlund's walls. Samon had watched on with a smirk on his face as the voluptuous tiefling snapped both the mugger's wrists and sent him limping away.
But Cyra, for all her attributes and abilities, was no goddess, and she was absolutely ravenous. And not just for red meat, she realized when she felt Samon's hand press insistently against her lower back. She bit her lip as she felt the carnal desire heat her loins, but before she could enjoy her lover's thick meat, she needed the meat of a beast in her stomach. And it seemed, to her, that both of those things would have to wait. A very peculiar creature was approaching them with both wonder and fear in her eyes.
"Well met," Cyra said to the woman. As she and Samon neared, they realized that the creature wore a suit of scale mail and had a spear on her back. She also wore a deep green cloak with the cowl pulled over her head, but not enough to hide her face. "Well met," she said again, more insistently, when the woman did not acknowledge her. Then, the woman looked Cyra in her eyes, and the tiefling and Samon both paused and gasped.
Glowing golden eyes stared at her. The face was smooth around the lips, nose, eyes, and ears, but had small, smooth black scales as well that descended sparsely down the long, elegant neck. They realized that much of her actual armor that they had thought to be scale mail, were actual dragon scales, human-sized and smooth, and seemed only to cover her shoulders, forearms, flanks, and shins. Even then, they were not very dense. Her legs were covered by adventurer's leather leggings that cut off at the knee and her torso by a form-fitting tunic with thin straps over the shoulders. Even the woman's chin jutted out strangely, with two small white horns poking out.
Cyra reached up and pushed the woman's cowl from her head to reveal pointed ears, much like an elf's, but with tiny black scales on them. She had a long cascade of flowing black hair, shining even in the waning sunlight that descended in elegant waves to her shoulders. The woman smiled slightly, and showed twin fangs.
"What manner of creature are you?" she asked breathlessly, even as Samon put his hand closer to the hilt of his broadsword.
"I am dragonborn, from Tymanther," the woman replied. "What are you?"
"I am a tiefling," Cyra responded, putting a calming hand on Samon's shoulder to put him at ease.
"I know of your kind," she responded. "Kin of demons. I have seen some of your kin before."
"You're probably the strangest race this city's ever seen. And there are drow roaming these streets."
"Drow? Ah, the black-skinned elves, yes?" the dragonborn replied.
"You must be new to this plane," Cyra chuckled. The dragonborn merely cocked her head curiously.
"Yes, actually. From what our leaders have deduced, our homeland was once on a planet called Abeir, a sister planet to this Toril that you inhabit. In fact, at one time, they were as one. Abeir-Toril. There is much lore on the matter, and I will not bore you with it. However, for whatever reason, the two have collided, though not entirely in a physical sense. My city was removed from Abeir and thrust onto this world, on top of what was once the realm of Unther. Many of my kind have left Tymanther to explore our neighbors. Some have met with great friends, others with dire enemies. I have only determined that this realm, this Luruar, is in dire straits."
"That's quite a story," Samon said. "But it is a bit far-fetched, don't you think?"
"Yes, I do," the dragonborn said matter-of-factly. "In fact, I am not sure if I believe it myself, yet here I am."
"She should see Lura," Cyra said. Then her appraising eye fell over the dragonborn. "What is your name?"
"I am called Ambrusia Blackscale," she said. "And I should clarify: I am not entirely dragonborn. My mother was elven, and loved my father, Lord Sharn Blackscale, very much."
"Good for you," Cyra said. "I have to say, you are quite the specimen of your species, even if you are not full-blooded."
"What do you mean?" Ambrusia asked. Cyra looked her up and down. Ambrusia stood six feet tall, and clearly was of solid build despite her half-elven heritage. She also was quite well-endowed, a feature that Cyra was noticing now that she was not being shocked by the unusual woman. Her hips flared out pleasingly, a solid base for fighting—and for lovemaking, Cyra mentally added. Her breasts, as well, were quite generous, and despite being the size of large melons, larger than the tiefling's even, seemed to hold themselves up quite well. Cyra found herself wondering if maybe there were scales beneath them to help in that regard.
"Hmm," Cyra said, licking her lips. "Never mind that. Let me get you to Lura, my dear, she will be quite pleased to meet you."
