Setting takes place in Forgotten Realms, copyright Wizards of the Coast.
Silverymoon was a city that opened its gates too all. For Lura, who was a black-skinned white-haired drow, that was a good thing. On the surface, her kind was not always readily accepted. Thanks to the works of the goddess Eilistraee and a certain well known drow ranger, though, she had made her way relatively easily through the Silver Marches. The dwarves of Mithral Hall had questioned her when she approached their realm, but had let her pass, thanks much to her seductive presence.
She was a bard, but only passively. Her interests lay solely in her chosen goddess, Sune, the Lady Firehair. Her hips swayed as she sauntered past the steel-clad guards of Silverymoon's gates, her gauzy midthigh skirt fluttering frivolously in the light breeze and barely concealed her long, sensual black thighs. Her black belt was thick, holding her light rapier, and contrasted against the silvery skirt she wore. Her hips were only barely hidden as the skirt's light material was more dense, giving a façade of decency to the drow.
Her shirt was made of a similar material as the shirt, and the material was dense around her chest, emphasizing her attempt at modesty. Her black boots were high, almost reaching her knee, with a thick heel several inches long, emphasizing her finely toned legs and voluptuous (for an elf) hips. What many realized too late were her potent abilities. Her ultra-light garments were heavily enchanted and laced with mithril, protecting her from blade and arrow alike. Her boots would give her supernatural speed when necessary, and silence when sneaking. Her rapier was as lethal as any drow weapon, though not native to the Underdark.
But Lura was a lover, not a fighter, and though she performed the latter admirably, the former was her forte, and her most lethal weapon, for the drow was not afraid to mix business with pleasure. She did, after all, have to make a living, and she was far too prideful to lower herself to prostitution.
Thus her quick pace, which did little to easy the sway of her hips, flaring out beneath a deliciously narrowed waist, or the bounce and sway of her breasts, which were larger than any surface elf's. Her top did help with keeping them from flying about wildly as her thick-heeled boots clicked loudly on the stone road. She had seem many women with generous attributes attempt to keep their prize snugly pressed to their chests, but Lura was fond of her ample treasures, and thanked Lolth wryly for granting her race with more generous endowments than their weaker, smaller surface cousins.
Lura put her black hand, clad in an equally black velvet glove, to the holy symbol around her neck. A woman's face with full, pouty lips and closed eyes was cast in silver, with long flowing hair, painted with red pigment, hung on a strong but thin silver chain just above the cleavage her thin top presented. She was on her way back to the festhall her fellow Sunites owned with an item she had been hired to retrieve from a very greedy, and very xenophobic elven wizard. Lura grinned as she recalled the juiciest bits of her mission.
With the Hunter's Gate and the Moonwood behind her, she went south into the Market, where the festhall awaited.
"Lady Lura!" she heard, and her violet painted lips turned down into a scowl. Her forehead crinkled as her thin, elegant white eyebrows arched down. The call repeated itself and the bard had to take a deep, calming breath before she stopped.
"Yes, Mikhail?" she said, turning on her heal. Her white hair, highlighted crimson in honor of Sune, whipped around her head as her matching crimson eyes stared down the young man.
"Lady Lura, your presence is that of Sune herself," he said, very nearly falling down to his knees and grovelling before her. Something in her drow mind realized she would have enjoyed the almost handsome young man naked and licking the soles of her feet in worship as her many-tongued whip teased his welted back...
She shook the image from her mind and focused on the boyish eyes looking at her. "Will you ever think of anything more clever to say?" she asked, her voice a little more harsh than she'd intended. He looked crestfallen, and a very un-drow-like feeling of sympathy pervaded her thoughts. "I apologize," she said grudgingly. "I am in a rush."
"I will not keep you long," he said, excited again. "I would just like to know if, maybe, perchance, you'd like to, mayhap--"
"Out with it! A woman does not like to be kept waiting," she said.
"A dancing festival!" he blurted, then bit his tongue. "There is a festival in honor of Sharess tonight just outside the city. I thought that since you were a Sunite, and Sharess serves your goddess, you might like it."
Her immediate reaction was to turn him down, to provide a perfectly reasonable (albeit, perfectly false) excuse, and going on her way. But something about this offer was different than the many, many solicitations her youthful human admirer had offered. Smiling enough to reveal her opalesque teeth, she offered her hand. "Bring me a white rose, with a black stem, and red around the edges of the petals, and I will accompany you," she said.
"Just like you," he said. She blinked dumbfounded, not expecting him to discern the metaphor between the rose and herself. Unexpectedly, her mouth dried and her heart fluttered with an urge to kiss the boy, but quashed the urge viciously with typical drow ferocity. She simply nodded.
"I will be in my festhall quarters," she said, pointing to the tall, long building at the apex of the Market's circle.
"I will arrive before sunset," he said, hurrying off.
Sighing with frustration, she turned again toward her festhall. Her footfall's were loud on the hard stone as she began negotiating her path through the throng of people gathering around the different stores and temporary shops set up in the Market circle. Lura recognized several of the citizens as she passed them, and they likewise recognized her, greeting her warmly. She was smug as she smiled and winked at them, having served them, men and women alike, from within the Sunite festhall.
Lura was no prostitute or common street whore. The drow bard was very selective with her mats, and only those she felt had the fortitude to mate with a drow ever shared her bed, or one of the basement rooms with her. She was getting close to the rose-emblazoned double doors of the Dancing Rose, and the doormen, dressed in thin loincloths that did little to hide their longswords and with their torsos painted in imagery of the Lady Firehair, pulled open the doors for her. She ran her fingers over their rippling muscles in appreciation, letting her long nails drag across the skin, and entered.
Soft music and heavy incense assaulted her senses, and she immediately felt a pleasant lightheadedness sooth her. As a drow, she was resistant to such chemical effects, but she allowed a slight indulgence in the name of Sune, though she never truly let her guard down. A willowy woman approached her, sliding her hands over Lura's shoulders and down her arms, to clasp her hips and pull her tight, then pressing pink-painted lips against Lura's violet lips. The drow pulled the woman tight, cupping her bottom and grinning behind the kiss.
"It is good you have returned, sister," Shanara said in her low, sultry voice. Only the faint scent of wine came from her lips.
"A pleasure, as always, to be greeted by such a skilled woman," Lura said, lightly patting Shanara's bottom. The woman was taller than she was by a full head, for Lura, being drow, was barely more than five feet tall, and the woman was closer to six feet. Shanara's long legs were complimented by long arms, and her breasts were not large, but sat high on her chest, and fit into Lura's small hand perfectly. Shanara let her brown hair fall over her lightly tanned shoulders, which were bare save for the thin band of cloth that held her nearly see-through dress up. Lura appreciated the sight of her dark brown aereolas and semi-firm nipples through the red-orange dress.
"Miria awaits you," Shanara said, leaning in to nip at the soft flesh of Lura's neck, just below the jaw. "As do I," she whispered huskily, her fingers gliding the lower edge of her belt, short nails scraping through the sheer cloth. Lura felt a lascivious shiver course from her sex to her spine as the human nipped at the point of her sensitive ear.
"In due time," Lura replied in a similar fashion, squeezing Shanara's bottom, something she knew made the human woman squirm with delight.
Extricating herself from the sensual woman, Lura passed between tables stocked with patrons, even early in the afternoon. A trio of dwarves downed mugs of ale with one of her dwarven sisters, with bountiful bosoms that were fitting for the stocky race and long, thickly braided hair. Lura grinned at the rough giggle she made when one of the stocky fellows pinched her round butt. His comrades laughed heartily when she slugged him hard on the jaw. Dwarves, she thought, interesting mating rituals. I'll have to try that sometime.
Ahead of her she watched in awe (and arousal) as one of her more exotic sisters placed her foot on a chair, right atop her chosen patron's crotch. The tiefling, a product of the union between a mortal and a creature of the lower planes, had very long and very sharp stiletto heels on, and the hard sole of her black-and-red shoe pressed against the swell in the man's trousers. Her black thong underwear had slipped deep into her bottom, something made evident by the long skirt she wore which was nearly transparent. Lura appreciated the swell of the tie fling's breasts, barely contained by a black bra that contrasted to her ruddy skin. Petite, dark brown horns came from her cranium, parting the pale blonde hair that was tied tight behind her head. Her short fangs grazed her victim's cheek as she licked with a long red tongue against his jaw line.
Lura bit her lip and patted the girl on the bottom as she walked past. With lightning reflexes, the tiefling reached out and siezed her gloved hand, pulling her roughly over the chair as Lura passed, planting a searing kiss against Lura's mouth. "Welcome back, sister," she said, her voice an exotic double tone. Lura grinned lasciviously at her and turned to walk away.
"Look at me, worm!" she heard the tiefling, Cyra, shout. Lura grinned at the sound of skin smacking skin, and the man pleading for mercy. She would have made an excellent drow, she thought to herself, remembering the times she had treated a would-be lover in such a manner back in the Underdark.
Finally, she reached the bar, and leaned on the wooden construct. She admired the polished surface with engravings of roses, atop which danced several maidens, all naked or wearing a thin chain around their waists. She named them as Lliira the Joybringer, Hanali Cilanil, also known as Lady Goldheart, and Sharess the Dancing Lady. All were goddesses allied with Sune. Above them all on the bar-scape was the moon, Selûne, who Lura fancied as a former lover of her goddess.
"What's your fancy?" asked Gundor. Lura fancied the robust man with a smile.
