Sune's Chosen

Hammer reached up high, stretching the fatigue from his thick, rippling muscles, and took a deep, cleansing breath of the cool damp air. A smooth sheen of dew glistened in the light of the setting moon, and he pulled his shoulder-length mane of brown hair back behind his head, securing it with a small leather band. A purely feminine purr came from the ground, and he looked down to see Shanara, half wrapped in a thick, soft blanket, grinning contentedly as she enjoyed her dreamscape.

His thoughts were pulled from her as he recalled the day's events. Something had resurfaced in him earlier that day. They had saved the wagon team, or more accurately Cyra and Lura had, and he felt something he had not felt for several years. Back then, he had been a warrior, mighty and brave, a barbarian serving Tempus in battle. War was his life, and he and his clan had excelled in its art. His men wore naught but animal furs: cloaks and leggings made of a bear's hide, boots from the skins of mighty bucks, gloves from the stitched skins of foxes and wolves. They wore no armor over their chest, instead choosing to paint symbols with dyes. On his chest, he had worn the likeness of a horse's head, painted with red dye, a symbol of the Knight of the Lanceboard. It was the Red Knight's symbol, a goddess of strategy and exarch of the Lord of Battle himself.

It was only a single throw, and not even a real weapon, he told himself. A blacksmith hammer, a random object he had taken in his hurry to leave Silverymoon, had rested on his belt the way an elven bladesinger might carry a dagger on her belt to accompany her sword. In the heat of the moment, he had acquired his target, drawn the small, poorly balanced hammer, and hurled it a long bowshot's distance to hit, perfectly, on the mark. Even with a balanced weapon, a skilled thrower would be hard-pressed to make such an attack. He had shouted Tempus' name, and the Foehammer answered.

Looking down, he saw Shanara, spent and sleeping soundly after a vigorous, rolling bout of lovemaking, and could not bring himself to smile. Truly, he enjoyed her company and thought fondly of their friendship, but at a time like this, he could not look past the holy symbol rising and falling in the nook between her modest breasts. Sune. He could feel Tempus' disdain for the goddess, could feel the Red Knight in his heart, scowling at what the Lady Firehair represented.

"Too long, you have taken refuge in Her halls," a firm, feminine voice said.

His gaze was torn from Shanara's breast and he glanced around, legs bending slightly as his weight shifted to the balls of his toes, ready for whatever threat lurked in the wooded area. "Who goes there," he said quietly so as not to awaken the woman at his feet.

"You were always my favored, Gundor, son of Mandir," the voice came again. "It is a pity you no longer recollect my voice."

"It cannot be," he whispered.

"It is, as it always was. You called to my Father today, and he answered. Your heart sang the song of a warrior, a true warrior, and beat with the vigor befitting my lover," she said again, her voice rising.

Hammer felt his breath catch in his throat even as he began walking away from sleeping Shanara. The woods before him were filled with fog, and he rubbed his eyes as he gazed past the tall, dark trunks of old trees.

"Yes, you are beginning to remember..." she said, her voice lowering into a whisper.

"My Lady," he said breathlessly. He fell to one knee, the hard deadfall of leaves crackling under his weight. Cool, damp grass mingled dew and moist soil on his feet and knee, and he bowed his head, eyes clenched shut.

"Look upon me, my warrior," the Red Knight said, standing imperiously in front of Gundor.

His head slowly rose and he gasped at her radiance. She stood tall, though her red armor was not covering her, as usual. Her blonde hair covered part of her face, wrapped around the back of her neck, and fell down in front of her chest on the opposite side. Her legs were covered in long, loose pants, dyed red, that covered her feet and were damp at the hem from the dew. On her body she wore a long sleeved tunic, loose and comfortable, with her lapels untied. He gazed upon her, admiring as if for the first time the athletic curve of her hips, the shape of her thighs when the breeze pressed her pants against the limbs, and the gentle, womanly swell of her chest.

She looked upon the barbarian with an even stare, lips neutral and breathing even. She did not smile nor scowl at him, merely held out her hand and bid him rise. He stood slowly, forgetting his nakedness, and remembering the proud barbarian inside.

"You remembered yourself today," she said quietly. Gundor was mesmerized by the movements of her lips and the way her neck flexed when she spoke.

"I did," he said, his voice deep and solemn. His knees were weak and his heart beat quickly in the presence of the Red Knight.

"How did it feel, Gundor? My apologies, is it Hammer now?"

"Whatever you wish, my Lady," he said, bowing his head again. "Those that I travel with call me Hammer."

"Then I shall as well. How did it feel, Hammer, to remember the life you once led?"

"It felt," he said, making certain he spoke the correct words, "exhilarating. I was home again, returned to my place of comfort."

"The Dancing Rose did not comfort you?" she asked, a measure of irritation in her voice.

"It...had it's perks," he said. "But I was not at peace, not truly. I realize this now."

"Good," the Red Knight said. "I will never judge you by the company you enjoy, but you are being called, Hammer, by Tempus himself."

He lost his breath again, his eyes widening.

"And by myself." His gaze locked with hers, her honey-brown eyes shining through the darkness of night. "It is time for you to put away the bartender and the thing that festhall made you become. It is time for you to become, again, the mighty barbarian that won countless victories for your people. You are Gundor, Son of Mandir, of the Mighty Clan of the Griffon. The Thunderhammer on your back represents the life you led, the way Tempus, and myself taught you."

Hammer thrust his chest out at the recitation of his lineage, fists clenching at his sides and jaw firm. She came forward in long strides, her hands resting on his chest with an almost electric touch.

"And you are my lover," she said in a whisper. "And no Heartwarder, no human woman, no drow will ever match me."

Her touch lit fires in his loins and eyes. His hands grasped her hips and his face was enveloped by the sweet aroma of her hair. It was heavenly, womanly, and mighty all at once, like the scent of steel, wrapped in leather, under a fierce rainstorm. Hammer breathed her scent in, then pulled his face away, finding the passion in her gaze, then hungrily taking her lips with his own. They kissed passionately, his tongue sweeping over her lips, beckoning them to open.

But the Red Knight was not like other women. Her lips parted willingly, breaking under the insistence of his tongue, but unlike those he had known in the past, she went on the offensive. The Red Knight's hands were firm on his chest as she pushed him, hard, into a tree, her tongue delving deep into his mouth. She could feel the stubble on his face against her soft lips as she kissed him hungrily, and the sensation was at once tickling and rough.

Hammer growled deep in his throat as her teeth, perfect and white, bit down on his lower lip. She grinned at him, and the expression made his loins churn with need. It was not long before he felt his member swollen to rub against the rough fabric of her loose pants. His hands grasped at her back, roaming roughly before on settled on the firm swell of her bottom, and the other came to rest on her cheek, fingers rough against the soft skin of her neck.

She gasped against his mouth, her tongue driving hungrily forward again as she reached down to feel the enflamed shaft rubbing insistently against the inside of her thigh. The Red Knight came forward suddenly, her body pressed tight against the thick, broad torso before her as she pulled the naked shaft up into the nexus of her thighs. Even through the rough fabric of her pants, she could feel the heat and the thick veins, pulsing with thick, virile blood, that marked this member. A very mortal sensation overtook the goddess when she felt her loins clench and curl deliciously within.

He groaned at the sensation of the rough fabric of her pants against the sensitive flesh of his cock, but he grinned where others might shy away in pain. Her hips thrust hither and thither, grinding her hungry sex against his virile member, and he pulled his mouth away from hers. She gasped and moaned audibly as he nibbled and suckled down her delicate jaw line to the side of her neck. Hammer grinned against her skin as she almost giggled at the tickling sensation his bristly face inflicted on her neck.

"I need you, my love," the Red Knight said, her voice throaty and needy. "I have waited too long for you."

"I am returned to you, my Lady," he said, pausing from his ministrations to whisper to her. "Never again shall I leave."

The Red Knight clasped his jaw in her hands, staring him in the eyes with a look of desperation on her face. He could smell his cock on her palm as she ran her hands over his face, brushing hair away and smoothing the bristles of his beard. Greedily, Hammer grasped the waistband of her pants and thrust them down over the curve of her hips, and let gravity pull the garment down to the ground. His hands seized her collar, heedless of the thin leather straps that served to tie the collar shut, and with a flex of his back and arms, pulled the thin tunic apart, tearing it down the center.

"Take me," she commanded. Her voice was at once imperious and desperate, commanding and needy.

Hammer complied, slipping one thick leg between hers and hooking it behind her, then pushing forward, holding her tight against him as they both fell slowly to the ground. Her tunic fell open off to the sides, the leather band that had fallen free rested against her neck. The Red Knight pressed her hands firmly against his broad, muscular back, her nails digging into the flesh. She spread her legs before him and immediately felt his member, hot as it hovered just over her awaiting, needing sex.

Grinning down at his goddess, he shifted his weight onto one hand as he slid his other slowly down her torso. His fingers, thick and strong, grazed over her perfect, noble breasts, tracing languid circles around the darker aereolas and stiff, impudent nipples. He wanted to explore her again, to tease and taste her, but the needful look in her eyes demanded nothing less than his swollen shaft filling her steaming canal. His fingers glided down her taut abdomen and pressed against her soaked sex. After he spread the generous nectar of her arousal over his rigid shaft, he brought his hand up to her face.

She smelled her arousal on his hand, and for a brief moment, she felt such wanton urges that she would have blushed in any other company. The Red Knight took Hammer's fingers into her mouth, sucking them clean, and managed to find his eyes again just as she felt his thick, rigid shaft penetrate her, filling her to the hilt in one fell swoop. An audible gasp followed by a loud, relieved moan resonated in her throat and broke the still night air.

Hammer slid his hand down her flank, down to her hip, and pulled one of her legs up tight against his own flank and hip. Her other leg hooked around his thickly muscled thigh as he began to thrust deep into her. Never in all her life had she felt such sensual, erotic sensations as she did being filled by Hammer, for no other thing had ever fit into the channel of her sex so perfectly, so completely. The rigid rows of veins pulsed against the sensitive inner walls of her sex as the enflamed head of his cock rubbed relentlessly against the most sensitive spot deep inside her, at the heart of her sex.

Every race had a name for it. The elves had an allusion to Hanali Celanil, while the dwarves called it the Mountain's Secret. Human's simply called it "the Spot." Hammer did not lessen the divine heart of the Red Knight's pleasure with a name, he simply worshipped it with his ministrations. Relentless, he thrust forward, progressing from long, slow strokes to a quick, fierce inward thrust, followed by a slow, tantalizing egress, until the head of his hammer rested right at the entrance to her divine nexus.

Her back arched off the ground, thrusting her breasts up into the rippling, sweating façade of Hammer's massive torso. The moisture that coated his body lubricated the almost painfully erotic sensation of her turgid nipples sliding over the skin, and she gasped audibly. He bit down on her ear gently, sending a spike of pleasure through her body, all the way down to her quivery sex.

Her climax took her by surprise, clenching her pussy around his almost supernatural member, and sending spasms throughout her body. She convulsed and cried out, her fingers digging so hard into his skin that her nails broke his thick skin. A torrent of her sex flowed from her insides, coating his shaft with a copious amount of her honeyed nectar so thoroughly that he almost slipped out.

Hammer grasped her hip tightly and pulled her toward him, hilting himself as her sexy clenched repeatedly on him. He let his own climax take him, let her sex milk him as it squeezed so tightly around him, and thick, virile jets of his essence erupted forth in a hot blast of passion, painting the divine heart of her pleasure and her divine womb with his copious seed.

They lay there, panting, for what seemed like an eternity. Time stopped, and they lost themselves in their passionate embrace. Sleep took them both, and Hammer slept more soundly than he had in years. It was only when a cool morning breeze sent a chill over his damp body that he woke, alone. Despite his solitude, he rose with a smile, knowing that the Red Knight was with him again, and that he was who he was born to be: a barbarian and a warrior. As he stood, he felt something snug against his neck and tap lightly on his chest.

Looking down, he saw the symbol of the Red Knight hanging on his chest. The red horse's head, the likeness of the Knight on a Lanceboard, was secured by a thin leather band, what had remained of her tunic after he had torn it. Silently, he thanked the Lady of Strategy, and walked back toward the wagon's camp, finding his discarded clothing where Shanara had laid the night before. When he arrived, though, he did not find the plain clothing he had worn since his arrival in Silverymoon. In its stead, a pile of furs waited, clean and neatly folded. He recognized them as the furs he had worn once, long ago, as the chieftain of the Clan of the Griffon.

As he reverently donned the animal hide armor, he uncovered a long box, covered partially by leaves. He strapped the armor securely to his thickly-muscled frame, relishing in the feel of leather and fur against his bare skin, and knelt before the box. There was no latch, simply a lid to cover what lay within. He removed it, and his old weapon, a great warhammer, polished and carved with the symbols of his gods: The sword and shield of Tempus, the Griffon of his clan and Uthgar, and, on the opposing side, the Red Knight's Horse. He hefted the mighty warhammer, felt its weight in his hand, pulling the muscles in his arm and shoulder taut as he held it aloft. Hammer grinned with excitement, laying the weapon across his shoulder as he returned to the wagon, where he could hear the voices of his companions.

*****

Lura felt wholly different when she returned to the wagon where her companions awaited her. Cyra and Ana had left her in near their secluded campsite after her encounter with Sune, respecting her desire for privacy and contemplation. She wore her usual fine mesh clothing, enchanted powerfully to protect her in combat, and her sword at her hip. Her hair fell freely about her head and shoulders in long, lustrous silver locks, with the single crimson lock never blending in with the silver.

Immediately upon seeing the people she had traveled with and those she had helped rescue, she noticed something was different. She could sense their emotions, their desires, and their passions. Cyra was the first to welcome her back, loudly enough to draw the attention of the others.

"Welcome back, Most Beautiful Lura," Cyra said with a great sweeping bow. Lura almost smiled, but affected a sardonic smirk instead. Truthfully, she thought that was a fitting title for a Chosen of Sune, but her drow instincts forced a measure of sarcasm and irritation into her façade.

"It is past time for us to depart," Miria said gruffly. Lura thought she saw fatigue shadows under her eyes, which confounded her because elves generally required very little real sleep and more often preferred the Reverie, a state of semi-consciousness, to sleep.

"Are you certain?" Lura asked. "You do not look well." Miria locked eyes with Lura, and the drow could feel the pain in her soul. Several images flashed through her awareness, images that disturbed her. The man that lead the wagon leering down behind his erect member, the elderly man forcing himself between pale, toned thighs, and even the woman laughing quietly, but maniacally at her. She suspected that Sune had given her the power to see into people's hearts, but more than that? The ability to almost experience things that caused pain and remorse as if she were in someone else's shoes?

"Lura, are you well?" Hammer was asking her. His resonant voice drew her from her troubling musings, and she nodded curtly as she studied him. Something had changed in the big man, as well. He wore his traditional armor, all animal skin, and had a large, magnificent hammer strapped to his back. What stood out the most to her, though, was the red horse, a knight piece from a Lanceboard, hanging from his neck. And he had the air of divinity about him, though it did not emanate from him.

"I see you have found your true passion, Hammer, and that your heart is at rest," she said solemnly. "Sune is saddened by your departure, but pleased that, through serving your passions, you still, in a manner of speaking, serve her. She is happy for you."

The barbarian looked around skeptically, then seemed to take note of the red lock of hair that hung near her face. "I thank you for your words of kindness," he said. "You are correct, and you all must know that I no longer follow the edicts of Sune. I have returned to my old ways, the ways of the barbarian, for that is what I was born to be."

"And who do you serve now, if not Sune?" Shanara asked, a little coldly though she fancied him with a small smile.

"I serve Tempus, the Lord of Battle...and, more intimately, the Red Knight," he said, putting his big hand to the necklace.

"The Lady does not look kindly on the Lord of Battle," Miria said. She made no effort to conceal her disdain. "He destroys that which is beautiful, and the Red Knight is no better."

"You do not speak for Lady Firehair," Lura said suddenly.

"I am her Heartwarder," Miria said in a threatening tone. "I am closer to her than any of you are!"

"Not so," Lura replied, her ire rising. "Last night, Sune came to me, though whether it was a vision or a dream, I know not. She made love to me, unlocked my Heart of Passion with her hand, and infused my body and spirit with her divine power. I am a Chosen of Sune now."

"That is ridiculous," Miria said dismissively. She started to turn away when Cyra spoke up.

"It's true," the tiefling said, smoothing her pale hair around her petite horns. "I was there when the Sune took her. Me and the girl both."

Miria looked at Ana, who smiled sheepishly as she sat on the tailgate of the wagon, watching the drama unfold. "What in the Hells were you three doing?"