Iliara and Cyra had camped outside the only entrance to Gauntlgrym they knew of. There were signs of a camp and combat, and they both had a strong feeling that Lura and Hammer had been here. They were both skilled enough in the wilderness to recognize footprints, even a few days old, and Iliara identified Hammer's massive footprint easily. So they camped in the same area, though not quite where the drow and human lovers had slept.
The sun was starting to flicker into the canopy created by the trees overhead, dappling Cyra's ruddy skin with cool light and setting Iliara's pale flesh almost to a glow. As Cyra opened her eyes, pure gold with only a thin slit of black down the middle, she relished in the sight. Iliara had always struck her as beautiful in a lithe, athletic way. She may enjoy larger female features, but Iliara's beauty was ethereal in its grace. She smiled and snuggled closer to the assassin.
"Lovely couple," a throaty, almost gravelly voice said. It was feminine, but didn't strike Cyra as the type of feminine she'd be interested in keeping around. She felt Iliara tense under her touch: her abdomen under Cyra's hand going taut, as if the elf was ready to spring her entire body into action.
"Dangerous, too," Cyra said in a low, threatening voice. She could taste flames like cinnamon in the back of her throat.
"Oh, aye," the other woman said. "I've seen your work. I'm not here to taste it myself."
Cyra rolled over, gracefully coming to one knee, reaching for any weapon that might be in close proximity. Finding none, she stood, wearing only her linen pants and crisp white blouse, completely unbuttoned for Iliara's benefit and giving this woman—a half-orc, by the looks of her—a delightful view of her cleavage, chiseled abdomen, and the two lines that formed a teasing
V
under her pants.
"What do you want, then," Cyra asked flatly, making no effort to cover herself. The scent of blossoming flame was hot on her breath. The half-orc, wearing only a thick woolen shirt and worn leather pants with stout boots, held up her hands, palms forward to put the red-skinned woman at ease.
"To offer my axes," she said, grinning. Her canine teeth were conspicuously sharp. The grin grew to her eyes, which sparkled a dull gray, and her prominent forehead creased. Cyra admitted to herself, if not aloud, that despite her rough, orcish facial features, she wasn't unattractive. Her lips were soft, and her jaw was strong. Her forehead was framed with short, spiky black hair that gleamed in the early morning sunlight. Piercings studded her eyebrows, a ring was thrust through her nose, and scars decorated her flesh, seemingly self-inflicted as badges of pride.
Iliara was next to Cyra now, and the dragonspawn had to note the distinct difference between the two. Iliara's pale white skin was stretched taut over lithe, compact muscles, while the ash gray skin of this half-orc was bulging with muscle that in some ways was more powerful that Cyra's. More than their distinctly different builds, the half-orc's feminine assets were large and glorious. Breasts that seemed to naturally ride high on the half-orc's chest were large and perky, round and firm. Her hips were wide—birthing hips—and packed with powerful muscle that even Cyra envied.
"We've gotten along well enough on our own," Iliara said, interrupting Cyra's appraisal of the warrior. "What need have we of you?"
The half-orc twisted her head back and forth, her neck popping loudly as she lifted a battle axe and hand axe out of their belt loops on her hips. "You likely don't. But I've been wandering around on my own since I was fourteen years old, about five years ago. I lived with a tribe of nomads to the east and north. They were human, and when my mother birthed me, I was an immediate outcast. When I grew into adulthood, I left. At fourteen, I was stronger, bigger, and faster than the rest of the human children. Orcs mature faster than humans, you see. And we harbor emotions that are far more intense. Rage burned my blood greater than I could control. Every insult was met with violence, and I knew I couldn't keep from killing someone if I didn't leave."
The half-orc began pacing back and forth, weaving the tale with her hands as much as her tongue. "My emotions, all of them, drive me to great heights and great depths. My solitude taught me to control them better, but I knew I could not survive on my own, not with any sense of sanity. When first I saw you two, I knew that I had a chance at companionship. You have good hearts, filled with love. I, too, know love." She blushed fiercely for a moment, eyes cast downward and cheeks turning an ashy-red.
"That's enough," Cyra said before the half-orc could continue. "What is your name?"
"Vath," she said. "Just Vath."
"Well enough," Cyra said, putting her arm around Iliara and giving her an affectionate squeeze. "Welcome, Vath."
There was a screech overhead, the sound very draconic.
Vath's eyes lit up as she spun her axes at her sides. "Sounds close," she said eagerly.
"Be calm," Cyra said as the red, winged form soared down around the trio and landed beside Cyra. "This is Drax, my..." she paused, considering what to call the beast. She'd never had to label it, and "pet" seemed demeaning. "My son."
The half-orc stood up straight, axes limp in her hands. "Son?"
"Long story," Iliara said as Drax licked at Cyra's thigh, sniffing her before turning one slit-pupil eye at the half-orc. He almost seemed to smile.
"Tieflings do strange things," Vath said.
"They do," Cyra said, and when she grinned, flames licked at her lips and sprouted form her horns, forming a crown of flame. "But I'm not tiefling."
*****
Vath was relieved when the tiefling—or so she thought—welcomed her into the fold. She'd been longing for company for years. Not just people to help her with a job for a few days, or a nightly lover, or something so fleeting. She wanted true companionship. She wanted people she could call friends, even family.
When first she'd seen the horned woman and her elven companion, her first thoughts hadn't been about their beauty. It hadn't been about the way they were overtly affectionate with each other. It was about the violence inherent in their every movement. Cyra was a woman built for close quarters battles. Strong, powerful, and with the ability to breathe fire right into the face of her foes. It was a beautiful thing to the barbarian.
And Iliara, so lithe and agile, her movements were graceful but lethal. She wasted no movement in dealing death, but the way that she moved was so eloquent as to be poetry put into flesh, a symphony of muscle and steel that left corpses piled around her. She respected the lethality.
The dragonling she'd seen before. When she heard it, she immediately felt the bloodlust that lived in her blood set aflame. She was eager to prove herself to these fine warriors. When the thing landed, she remembered Cyra's pet that often hunted the forest with her. She had not, of course, expected her to call it her son.
"What do you mean, not tiefling?" Vath asked, her prominent brow knitting together in confusion.
"It's...complicated," Cyra said. "My blood is draconic, but through some sort of sorcery, my blood was altered to keep that side of me hidden away. To all outward appearances, I am a simple tiefling, and I didn't know differently until another half-dragon mated with me. One I found out, after the fact, was sired by the same red dragon that sired me.
"I was born with the red skin and horns befitting my father, but constrained in this humanoid form. I know of nobody that can truly explain it better than that." Cyra shrugged her strong shoulders. "What matters now, though, is if you're willing to accept that truth and still journey with us, for we are soon to delve into deep, dark places, where our kind will not be welcome."
Vath looked over her shoulder, where she knew there was a cave that led to Gauntlgrym and the Underdark.
"If you mean that way, are you prepared to fight an army of drow warriors and wizards?" Vath asked skeptically.
"Lura and Hammer went that way," Iliara said, but her voice was laced with sudden uneasiness. She hadn't expected this.
"Then they are dead," Vath said firmly, "and I grieve for your loss."
"Surely you mean High Priestess Luriia Torviir and her consort, a warrior named Calavyr," came a silky smooth voice. "I knew there was something wrong about those two."
A drow walked around a tree, squinting in the morning light, hands confidently planted on his hips. All three women took up defensive postures, muscles tense. Vath even growled a little. Cyra's tail swished back and forth in agitation, the thick appendage laced with veins and muscle. Her throat burned with burgeoning inferno. Iliara had daggers in her hands, seemingly appearing from thin air. The magical blades dismissed and summoned with a thought.
"Pfah," the drow spat, smirking as he drew a slender rapier, magic crackling down its edge. "Once I dispose of you, I will unveil the little deception your friends have played on mine. They'll never make it to Menzoberranzan."
Cyra grinned. "Thanks for that," she said. "Drax, eat this piece of meat."
The dragonling exploded up into the sky, roaring its juvenile roar as it went before turning down into a spiral toward the drow swordsman. Instinctively, the drow dropped a glob of impenetrable darkness around him and leapt out the back just as the dragonling slammed into the earth, fire exploding out from the impact.
With a victorious shout, the drow thrust his blade into the darkness, thinking to skewer the dragonling. But Iliara jumped out of the darkness at him, seeming to float about the stabbing rapier, her feet kicking for the swordsman's face. Her firm heel planted squarely on his cheek, knocking him sideways. They squared off, sword ringing off daggers that moved faster than the drow could comprehend. He had a half dozen cuts on his sword arm before their first exchange ended.
Vath and Cyra were just about to join their elven companion when two more drow appeared from the shadows cast by the morning sun. Vath immediately went on the offensive, bloodlust boiling over as her axes assaulted her drow with unrelenting fury. She took many hits, but they didn't slow her in the least. She hammered her axes against shield and scimitar alike as the drow before her began to give ground.
Cyra was more cunning with her attacker, a warrior with a short spear. He stabbed and slashed at her, even smacking her in the ribs on a few occasions. Cyra, without weapons, settled for dodging, moving her muscular body more quickly than the drow seemed to anticipate. Her own sort of rage boiled in her blood, a draconic fury that could only be released with searing flame.
