Chronicles of a Drow Templar Ch. 02

Chapter 02: Expatriate

Æiristus left the temple ceremonial hall with one more nightmare to her name, one more success. The House Mæstre no longer existed, Prince Baravti's seditious undermining saw to that. And her assignment and unyielding sense of faith and duty saw the return of one more dissident back into the laity.

Her mind would not shake recent events…

What had been Baravti was now profoundly changed. He knew who he was, though no one of his original race would ever officially recognize him as such again. His soul was terrentene, sentenced back to primordial blackness for the Goddess' assimilation, but not before transformation. And there was no telling how long he would continue to live after transformation. Seasons? Decades? Centuries? Until another stronger monster or wanderlust-filled adventurer came along to kill him most likely.

His captor was there to bear witness of her service among the invited visitors, the lesser priestesses, the lay and the male priests, the templars and temple wardens, all within the hallowed amphitheatre of his making for the final three hours that was Ceremony. This area was not for public observance - it was one level away from inner sanctum. It was an area Æiristus loathed. She looked across the arena floor. Leather creaked as her arms tightened across her armored chest. Her eyes narrowed on seeing her cousin, her facial scar throbbed, a growl buried itself deep in her throat. Baravti was not alone in personal loss. This was where she lost her priesthood.

But this is where Baravti lost his race and became abhorrent, he became drider.

Æiristus knew very little of what was involved with the making of a drider. She studied many things as a lytling, more than she should have - things that began her troubles and things she could no longer remember even under threat of extended, exquisite torture. If she had known more about the making of driders it was information long lost to her. As it was now, she only knew what she witnessed in Ceremony and what the high clergy saw fit to feed her, just like everyone else not a member of the inner sanctum.

The templar gazed down on the activities of the lower theatre. The new drider lay crumpled on the floor of the temple's deep internal amphitheatre sapped of energies. After twelve hours of continuous rituals and magic bombarded upon it - initiated by the prime high priestess and maintained by divine Handmaidens and helper priestesses - the final three hours obliged by a witness audience, it was exhausted. The creature, an aberration of centaur-like features, lay shining in sweat and breathing heavily. Its lower body was now dual-sectioned, oblate, arachnid in appearance: one section, built to support eight legs instead of two and the still-elven upper body; the other, bulbous, made for poison and silk production. Eight segmented spikes for legs were all folded akimbo beneath it, serene for the moment, not yet used. The dark-elven body was still the man from the torso up, though nude, he draped from the spider-half down to the floor, unconscious. Before long, the beast would awaken driven by a new hunger for blood and lust. The beast would need to feed, almost vampiric, he would need to drain blood, the life essence of any victim he could capture; mammalian blood was not a pre-requisite. Retaining his intelligence and his memories, the dark-elf half would be driven to mate, but with a much more feral, far more base level of instincts driving the need. It was best to find a female drider to let the new driderling take his hunger out on, but such was rarely possible. In Baravti's case, a surface elfin female prisoner, a blood enemy, was readied for his new interests – whichever direction his hunger took as he woke.

Æiristus watched as required and though her jaw clenched pressing her teeth tightly together in silence, she exhibited no emotion at the display below. Unlike the gasping, whispering and awestruck younger priests and laymen nearby, she had seen enough similar scenes in her life before that permitting herself reactions were not an option. Higher ranking clergy and sister templars occasionally tore their eyes from the spectacle to observe and gauge the medjai responsible for the show. Acknowledgment would not come from her. She made no time for petty politics.

When all finally completed, Æiristus saw her cousin turn to her and nod. She ignored the woman. From the small arena field, the drider held under control by six guards, the surface girl unmoving - Æiristus could not see if she breathed or not - the presiding high priestess turned to face the templar responsible for bringing in their newest monster and dipped a modest bow. Æiristus dropped both arms to her side and bowed deeper. The drider screamed rage recognizing the templar standing in the amphitheatre seats.

The templar looked on one more nightmare to her name. One more wrong corrected. One more occasion where legend was retained. His failure, her race's success.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Æiristus left the clerical body of the temple and made her way to the barracks. She passed through the halls of the templars noting who was present and who was out. Some had been present during ceremony others, though within the temple, elected not to attend. Had she not brought the prisoner in this time she would not have been there herself, actually having not even been within the walls of the temple. She would have been in Antiago, her preference being the fighting arena there.

The muffled sounds of play from the mated cells she shared with another templar caught her attention. Hers was a cell she rarely used but it was a provided bunk between jobs if she needed it.

Apparently, her cellmate's was in use. The low laughter made her wonder at the sort of diversion going on in here, more than thankful to let go of the weight of Ceremony.

Unstrapping her spurs from her boots, Æiristus tucked the jingling metal inside her belt pack. She secured anything else that rattled, rang, or clicked before creeping into her room. The last she recalled, her shared cellmate's rooms were separated by an open doorway with black two-inch wide ribbons acting as a curtain that barely swept the floor that you could peek right through. There was a chance Sheylia had them tied off to the side and was using her room as a spare, it's not like she was ever there.

Stepping into the room using the lateral outsides of her feet and rolling slightly back in on them she padded silently across the floor into the darkness toward the stripes of pale blue light coming from the curtain of black ribbons she remembered between their small rooms. She stood back against the wall so as not to disturb anything going on in the neighboring room.

Tied down on the bunk was a delicious young male Æiristus remembered as a fetch. He was naked except for a white harness that reflected the room's blue lighting, hid nothing and ribboned the boy's dark body in a most enticing way. His wrists, ringed in white cuffs, were bound above his head away from the female in charge. His ankles, looped in matching white, were widespread and anchored safely down. He bared his teeth and growl-laughed for his mistress in appreciation for her as she flicked and swatted at the raging erection poised for her. It stood at sharp attention and likely did not need the support it had of the inch-wide harness wrapped around its blue-black satiny base.

Æiristus drew the corner of her lower lip in between her teeth as Sheylia licked a finger and circled one of the boy's erect standing nipples. She then leaned slightly to wrap her other hand around that pillar of excited muscle her playmate sported. She drew it tightly down and paused at the base. The male trembled visibly at her touch. He gasped and fell back at the shoulders pushing sharply carved hips up as the woman let go. She yanked him back down tightening the buckle around his standing cock one more notch making him jump and yipe. Then she smiled and with a terrible slow ease, drew her fingers with a feather's touch up the sensitive backside of his cock from the root of his tied up snug balls up to the taught-flesh tip. Æiristus suppressed a sharp intake of her own breath as the youth whimpered and struggled, pressing forward, reaching for a heavier touch.

"More!" he pleaded.

Sheylia laughed evilly and whacked the middle back of the boy's dick with two of her fingers enough to make it wave for her and annoy the male jostling his bindings. She leaned forward to kiss the lips of the angered face and laugh as he pulled his face away with a growl.

"You are an unkind playmate," Æiristus finally remarked to her cellmate.

Two obsidian faces turned toward the ribboned doorway to see nothing though they heard the voice. "Vrynn? Are you returned?"

"Flesh and whole." She dropped her gear in her room and appeared in the doorway to look sympathetically on a very pretty, very well harnessed young man. "Which one is this?"

"Jorek," he replied.

Sheylia whacked his cock again.

"Ow! Hey!"

"She was addressing me, dolt!"

Æiristus shrugged. "He can speak for himself. Pretty one. Alter boy?"

The youth looked at his mistress before responding. "Was," he said.

Æiristus walked over to the couple's bunk and looked down on him. Good lean lines, few scars, alert, she noted. She felt her body heat rise a notch looking into his eyes. Nice face. "And now?"

"Chronicler." He recognized her from the Baravti turn-in. He wasn't invited to Ceremony, however.

"That old?" She looked across the bunk, the boy in the middle, at Sheylia. "Harvesting 'em young, are you not?"

"He's been blooded," she insisted.

Æiristus grinned and looked down on the youth. She couldn't resist running her fingers lightly over his chest and down his taught stomach just beneath the lines of his harness. The boy practically purred. Damn this one was easy on the eyes. "Well, at least he is of age."

"Anyone catch you yet?"

Æiristus sighed. "Not yet." Pretty eyes.

"So, what's your excuse?" Sheylia absently stroked Jorek's member as they talked.

"No one strong enough or quick enough to pin me down," she replied drawing her hand gently along the backside length of the youth's slanted ear. His head practically followed her hand. "And rending is the easy part."

"You're five decades passed your own rending," Shylia spouted. "You shoulda gone and just picked a man and done away with it – long ago. Do you even attend the annual festival?"

Æiristus made a face and shook her head. "Not for decades. No point."

"Oh-o-o-o, jump on here," Jorek squirmed. "I'll help ya out!"

Æiristus laughed. She cupped sweetly bound balls tenderly in one hand and pressed her warm lips to the cock offered making the lad jump. "Thanks for the bid, sweet-cakes," she murmured against hyper-tightened male flesh, "but this one does not work that way."

"T-too bad." Jorek's voice wavered disappointment watching the templar slowly withdraw her lips as she intentionally missed the glistening juices of excitement crowning the miniature hood stretched tight by hands and harness. Soft fingers and warm breath against his skin restrained tight stole away his thoughts, his concentration. His blood surged, coursing too close to the surface, hips pushed forward of their own volition as she just tapped raw emotion. Tingling rushed like a flower-burst of flame, all over, all-consuming.

Jorek shuddered hard, wringing his hands and feet in his bonds. It was an effort to open and turn his violet eyes up at Æiristus. She had a pleased, but not cruel expression on her dark face. "Does this mean," he cleared his throat. "Does this mean there's no interest at all?"

"Sounds to me like someone is begging for two females."

Sheylia scowled. "Look at him! He can't handle one!"

"Quit being so mean to him and jump on him!" Æiristus gestured at the youth's ready body.

"Yea!" Jorek eagerly agreed.

"Quiet, you." Sheylia smacked his dick again. Æiristus flinched for Jorek.

"Ow! That's getting old." Jorek craned his neck around to look at the other templar. "C'mon, Medjai Vrynn, join in."

Sheylia's snowy brow lifted. "That was quite a twitch when he called you by title.

"I believe he wants something to boast to his companions about."

"Be a damned fool t' dispute that," Jorek admitted.

"Who's gonna believe him?" Sheylia asked. "Everyone knows the great Æiristus Vrynn doesn't fuck. We're surrounded by priests who could wrest the truth out of him anytime they wished - if they cared. You are such a prude!"

Æiristus laughed. "Pathetic."

"Oh great," Jorek groaned. "Now ya done it. If we get anything it's gonna be a pity fuck!"

Æiristus green eyes sparkled. She leaned over to touch her lips to the young male's sweet mouth and wrapped her hand gently around his thick member that had begun to soften. As her fingers wrapped around it warmth flooded her hand as he instantly hardened. She thrilled as her little finger just barely touched the leather of the harness encircling the base of the youthful cock in her hand – she pushed the tip of her finger between the leather and the flesh it hugged. "My dear, Jorek, if ever I start a stable, rest assured, I will come looking for you." She lowered her voice. "Someone should rescue you from this crude female."

"Oooo," he squirmed. "Start now! Start now!"

She smiled, nuzzling very close. "What do I know of sex?" she murmured against his lips before pulling away. Her hand trailed ghostly along the seam of his cock lingering at the tip to collect the pearly drop of moisture that she kissed from her fingertip making sure his eyes were locked on hers as she did so.

A whimper fled his throat as she backed away to fade into the darkness.

"Don't go. Where's she going? Come back!"

"The arena beckons, lytling. I must go. Enjoy!"

"But…"

"Not visiting your cousin before you take your leave?" Sheylia asked taking up stroking where Æiristus left off.

"Where is the sanity in that?" she called back from her room. "That conniving priestess wants me dead."

"You don't know that."

"There is a difference between what I know and what I cannot prove. Treat our Jorek well. Remember, he cannot defend himself in his present position."

Sheylia grinned down on her handsome victim.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Without having been issued her next assignment Æiristus returned to her life within the walls of the subterranean Antiago arena. She did not bother to stop in at her family's villa to bid her farewells when she left the city. For that matter, with the exception of the surprise company in her shared temple cell, she had not bothered to go out of her way to offer any greetings either when she returned to town. Arena life, such that it was, was what she was far more attuned to, regardless that she chose to live in a neighboring city governed by a syndicate of dvergar dwarves as opposed to the theocratic culture of her own dark-elven kin. She was roughly only seventeen leagues away from the city anyway. The church knew where to find her when they needed her.

As for her family? Let them rot.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

The cavernous reception hall echoed the footsteps of the dark-skinned messenger as he approached the Obsidian Throne. Stopping at the prescribed distance the male had enough experience to wait for the echoes of his passage to fade before speaking. "Eminence, the Mistra Kylseriyn Hüne reports her presence at your beckoning."

Lolth's high priestess waited for the echo to die. Usually the echo was a quality of this room that appealed to Duranya. She enjoyed the frustration it invoked in those who thought they had urgent issues and detested the lengthening of their talk. This morrow however, Duranya was the one irritated. "Show her in."

The page dutifully spun about and marched from the room leaving behind him the ringing of his footfalls. A moment later a tall elegant dark elf entered seemingly floating above the floor. Kylseriyn entered without so much as a whisper echoing off the walls.

Duranya smiled. She had been watching this particular mistra for many years now. "Come, Mistra Hüne, we will speak in my private chambers."

The high priestess' private chambers were more expansive than most nobles' mansion-spires. Duranya led the way down a richly decorated hall to a room covered in tapestries depicting a war between Lolth and many Surface-World deities. It was a depressing atmosphere, one meant to cow the visitor. The furnishings however, were comfortable, subtle elf-skin couches and exotic feather-stuffed pillows.

Duranya poured two crystal goblets and handed one to Kylseriyn. When she spoke, her icy tone removed any friendliness from the gesture. "It is nine decades now and your cousin yet lives. T'would appear that the arena at Antiago favors her."

She glared at the mistra. The most recent attempts Kylseriyn had made to "enhance" Æiristus' arena challengers had each failed to kill the girl. "And the Surface assignments continue to do her credit. Her strength in position as a templar grows," the priestess continued. "Admittedly, I was curious to watch her progress at first, but her popularity is dangerous. She has grown too skilled at killing and surviving on her own."

"Your Grace, I—"

"Silence!"

The outburst nearly caused Kylseriyn to drop her goblet. The mistra now looked down into the dark liquid she held and found that she was no longer thirsty. Poisoning was an all too common way to eliminate problems.

"I have a new plan. Please. Drink."

Kylseriyn almost protested, but caught herself. Swallowing the stone-dry lump in her throat, she slowly raised the glass, took a deep breath and sipped the dark liquid. There were no immediate signs of poison, no pain or nausea. She realized that she had closed her eyes, and quickly opened them. If I am to die, she thought, then it is already done. Somehow, the thought gave her courage. "Your Grace," she said aloud, "I had preferred to avoid open assassination, but if you wish it . . ."

"No," Duranya smiled. "I have a plan of interest. We have an operative among the Surface humans who I think will pose a new challenge to your dear cousin. You know of one called Shakenkeliss?"

Kylseriyn raised her goblet to take another sip, but thought better of it and set the crystal down on a polished end table. "I know him by reputation, one of the better assassins of the Faith. But I had thought him killed some time ago."

"Yes, We had ordered his injunction when he became too bothersome. However, he is a sly one and managed to evade the medjai We sent. Regardless, We let it be known that he was indeed dead." She reached for an ivory encased scroll from a shelf and handed it to Kylseriyn. "Therein you will find directions on how to contact Shakenkeliss and details on a certain human duke. Send word to Shakenkeliss that in return for the injunction of this duke for Us his citizenship and position will be restored to him. I know this one. There is nothing he will not do to regain Our favor. Inform him also that a rogue medjai knows the importance of this duke and is on her way to thwart his mission for her own prestige. Tell Shakenkeliss he can expect the bonus of a promotion if he can suppress this rogue—and bring Us proof."

She passed a scroll case stained a darker color to the priestess, a standard orders scroll for a medjai. "This one is for your cousin. She needs to know that an assassin is on his way to execute the duke. We do not know his employers. Where Our concerns do not lie in the human duke himself, We are not yet interested in the Surface war such an actual act would instigate at this time."