The warm afternoon air hung still and sultry around Ardour, heat rising from the cracked and sun-bleached stones of the street below to make even her lofty vantage point feel hot and stifling. Sweat made the rough fabric of her shirt cling uncomfortably to her back, even causing a little splash in the thick white dust of the window ledge as a droplet ran down to the tip of her nose and fell to the sill beneath her face. She wiped a hand irritably over her brow, smearing her ashy grey skin with the chalk white of the city's ubiquitous dust.
The city didn't have a name any more, at least not one she knew, but it did have dust. Abandoned buildings and streets, all fashioned from the same smooth white stones, slowly being abraded to powder by the hot desert wind. Two centuries ago there had been a vast population here, with generous fountains and well-kept palm trees to stave off the desert heat. The amenities were gone now, nearly all of the people too. The place did have inhabitants, but they were singularly uninterested in keeping it cool and tidy.
Ardour scratched herself idly, unkempt black nails digging into the front of her leggings but finding no relief. The Itch was not so easily satisfied.
The Itch. The name really did not reflect the severity of an affliction that had humbled kings, ruined cities and brought a civilization low. But it did itch, boy did it itch. A flickering ticklish sparking in the groin that blossomed slowly into a raging inferno of heat that must be sated at any cost lest it drive its owner mad. No salve or ointment could touch it and nor would the afflicted think to try such a thing, for they all instinctively knew the one medicine that worked, if only temporarily.
Sex, for the afflicted, was a kind of blissful reprieve that soothed the mind and quenched inflamed flesh. It was often a curse too, for in the brief snatches of satisfied lucidity that followed they could feel that they were passing the disease onto new victims, perpetuating the madness. Still, history is full of plagues and society might have withstood this strangest of outbreaks if not for what came next. Deranged cults rose up, claiming either to have created the disease or to have mastered it. Dark rituals, desperate fearful magic and pleas to any god that would listen were all answered and demons began to walk the streets, cavorting with the afflicted. Slowly, madness consumed the world.
A droning fly landed on Ardour's head and she swatted it away irritably. The grey-skinned tiefling was almost certain that she wasn't mad, though she certainly bore the marks of the ancient apocalypse. Her face was pretty, with high cheekbones and a perfect nose, but her pupil-less red eyes could only have come from some long-ago fiend in her ancestry. Dark bull's horns sprouted from her forehead, while her damp black hair was pulled back in a long messy braid to keep it out of the way. Her frame was lean, more slender muscle than welcoming curves, with a powerful tail that further accentuated her unsavoury heritage. And then there was the demonic dick, just to confirm that her blighted ancestor must have been an incubus.
Ardour sighed. She had the Itch, she had the intimidating countenance, and the even more intimidating package, in short she had a lot of good reasons why decent folk should avoid her. Which was a shame because she liked them, the few of them that there were.
The ancient bell tower was where she came to watch them. It had a good view up the hill to their white-walled Abbey, where even now the gates were swinging open. The Seraph came first, recognisable at this distance by the gleaming reflections from their polished armour. Behind this valiant escort would come some novices from the Abbey bearing food, clothes and other alms. These would be left near a handful of wells on their well-trodden patrol route, donations for the needy as their religion demanded.
She wasn't exactly clear on their theology, though she was happy to take the food. It was usually bland and meagre in amount, but it was free and it was safe, unlike most everything else the lower city had to offer. You did have to avoid the Seraph though. The zealous guardians of the Abbey would grab you if they could and haul you off for 'cleansing' - a life sentence, given there was no cure for the Itch.
Today's group was a little larger than normal. Ardour counted ten Seraph in their gleaming winged armour, metallic feathers sparkling and halberds held ready. There were five novices in their simple white robes, each burdened by sacks of provisions. And there was a priest.
Ardour groaned. A priest meant a sermon, which meant a wait. The hot sun beating down on the tower was already giving her a headache. She watched them come nearer, down the hill from their home and through the narrowing streets. There was nobody else in sight, all the locals wisely keeping out of the way. They'd be back to scavenge once the visitors had moved on.
The group entered the square below her tower and lingered there. The priest set himself up on the grand steps of a large ruined hall, perhaps a guild hall once, and cleared his throat. The Seraph arrayed themselves around him in a loose box, weapons held ready. The spectacle was faintly absurd - one man preparing to perform for a crowd and ten others ready to drag away anyone who actually turned up to listen. Nobody did of course, but the whole affair was in sight of the entrance to Ardour's vantage point, leaving her stuck there for the duration.
"People of Ashyr!" his voice was just about audible at this distance, if a little reedy. "You sin, but the gods love you!"
Was Ashyr the name of this neighbourhood? The city? Or the whole world? Her head hurt and her balls itched. She scratched them both to no effect.
"You are wasteful and idle, but Lyrti offers you charity!"
The novices were moving around the square, leaving alms in the shade of doorways. Nobody lived here, it was far too close to the Abbey for anyone to feel safe. She wondered if they knew that. Or if they had ever even seen someone not from the Abbey, for that matter.
"You are ruled by base, evil, desires but Agraton offers you protection!"
The priest faltered for a moment in the dusty air and paused for a sip of water. Ardour noticed one of the novices was crossing the square toward her hiding spot. She craned forward for a better look, then crouched down with a curse as the figure looked up at the window.
"Shit!"
She held her breath, but there was no shout of alarm and no metal clank of approaching Seraph. She slumped to the floor, back against the wall beneath the window, and considered what she had seen.
The novice looked male, though androgynous enough that she wasn't certain. A little shorter than human average and very pale. White hair, which she knew was unusual for a human his age. From his features she guessed at about twenty, similar to her own age. She thought his face looked kind, with big bright eyes and nice pink lips... had she really seen all that or was she inventing details now? Her groin suddenly throbbed, a fiery tingling setting in.
"You are impure and infected!" The priest was back at it with renewed gusto. "But Scaevola offers you cleansing!"
"Bullshit she does..." Ardour whispered, scratching frantically at the crotch of her leggings. It wasn't helping, in fact she was rapidly getting hard. The tingling itch jumped from her balls to the base of her spine. Shuffling and grinding against the wall behind her gave no relief, but did earn her a thick trickle of dust down one cheek.
"Though you have turned from the light, the Triarchy will never turn from you!"
With a muffled whimper she yanked her leggings down to her thighs, freeing her traitorous cock. It was a darker grey than the rest of her, verging on black, and reached half the length of her forearm in its now achingly hard state. She half-scratched half-rubbed it frantically, smearing her hand with an oily mixture of fresh sweat and precum. The Itch didn't abate.
"In them you will find sanctuary! In us, their servants, you will find understanding and forgiveness!"
Ardour bit down on her hand to stifle a moan and tried to tune out the preaching. Abandoning any pretence she grabbed herself and began to stroke. The tingling was everywhere now, her skin felt like it was on fire. She knew from experience that masturbation didn't really help, but at a certain point you didn't have much choice but to try. Her slick palm made lewd squelching noises as it accumulated more leaked precum, but she didn't think the noise would carry down to the street.
Creak. What was that? She tried to focus, tried to listen past the preaching voice and the frantic slick-slick of her own fruitless stroking. It sounded like a footstep on ancient sagging wood, she thought. Wood not unlike the ladder that led up inside the...
"Ah!"
A head appeared through the trapdoor in the centre of the tower room. Long curly white hair framed a pale face with wide golden eyes, pretty pink lips forming into a shocked "o".
She was up and moving before her brain caught up, wobbling precariously as different parts of her each tried to go in different directions. Her dagger was lying on a crate to her left. A window to her right had the shortest drop - onto an adjoining roof she could run along. And his perfect, inviting mouth was right there...
He was saying something, but he had to repeat himself several times before she finally processed the words.
