Neverwinter Heat Ch. 02

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The Lady Tyran Courte, at her own service.
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Part 2 of the 4 part series

Updated 06/08/2023
Created 01/31/2017
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Tyran stroked her soft, silvery-blonde hair as she sat on her high seat, her golden eyes beaming down at those that had come to this place of worship. She was beautiful by all mortal standards, and she knew it. There was no argument to be had. Orc, dwarf, halfling, gnome, elf...they all lusted after her, she knew. It was one of the facts that kept her smile from diminishing into a baleful, wicked scowl.

She stood, the music ending, her golden robe shimmering all around her resplendent form. The pinnacle of mortal beauty, she held herself high, proud, and haughty, always looking down her nose. She approached the lectern—a monument of gold and marble, bedazzled with gemstones precious and rare, mined from the deepest reaches of the Underdark—and smiled at her congregation.

"My treasured followers," she said, her voice echoing off the great marble columns and stained glass windows. "My treasured acolytes and disciples. Welcome, and well met, this beautiful day of Kythorn. May Sune, Lathander, and Tymora all smile upon you. May Beshaba keep her gaze from you. May Torm and Helm watch over you. And may all the celestials go before you."

"And with you," the all responded in unison. A thousand adoring voices, all returning her blessings with a smile on their lips. She spoke uplifting words, warnings of folly, and bequeathed her people to help their fellows in their times of need. And, most of all, to donate their hard earned copper, silver, and gold to the Celestial Temple, that she may further the causes of all the goodly gods of Toril.

And when they all left, and all her acolytes had retired to their third-story quarters, she retired to her private room, a fair chunk of the coinage ferried by two hulking men wearing naught but brown robes and skullcaps. She pushed open her massive, ornate doors, and the men, mutes both, carried sacks of coin in with her. She dismissed them with a wave of her hand and relished in the lavishness of her living arrangements. She shed her robe, revealing her naked body—one of her many, many indulgences was speaking to all the followers of the gods wearing only her golden robe, and nothing else—to the candlelight of her private room. She meticulously counted the coins, tossing them into magical coffers—one for copper, one for silver, one for gold, and one for gemstones and platinum coins.

She placed the coffers in her large bureau, locking and speaking a magical phrase to ward the doors from prying hands. She was, at best, paranoid about her precious belongings being stolen or vandalized. Her golden eyes surveyed every aspect of every room she entered, searching for threats and traps. Satisfied, for now, that her room was safe, she pulled shut the heavy silk curtains on her windows, knowing full well that the candlelight would silhouette her perfect body against the curtains for any passersby. She cared not; let them look, let them hunger for her unattainable decadence.

Finally, she sat at her small, superbly crafted desk, pressed right up against the wall next to her bureau, and methodically began stripping the symbols of the deities she "served," placing Sune's visage face-down in a drawer, Lathander's sunrise inside a metal box to block the light, Tymora's coin in a black, torn pouch, and Helm and Torm's gauntlets under her desk. Each symbol was stitched into pristine white silk. Beneath them was her true heart and her true desire: the Black Sun of Cyric, Mad God of Lies.

What delicious treachery and trickery! Surely, she thought, the Mad One would approve of her ways. Indeed, from what communing she'd enjoyed with his servants, she was reasonable to believe so. They had fucked her, defiled her beauty, and thoroughly debased her as a way of showing Cyric's approval for her service.

Naked and bare before the black sun and ashen skull symbol, the hollow orbits examining her beauty and nudity, she splayed her legs wide and began rubbing herself, slapping herself, pinching and twisting her turgid nipples, turning the light brown areolae a shade redder under the torment. Her orgasm came quickly, as it always did, and her mind filled with the chaos and deceit of Cyric's insanity. Such connection was only possible thanks to the nature of her heritage.

The woman, a sorceress who's magic came directly from the domains of the gods, was aasimar, the offspring of a celestial being and mortal, neither of which she knew as parents. She had been orphaned on this Material Plane by them both, for reasons unknown to her, but known to Cyric, she knew—or rather, she believed, for why would the Prince of Lies speak falsely to her, of all his servants? She grinned at that twisted belief, understanding fully the deception and reveling in it.

"Cyric," she breathed, rubbing the nectar of her cunt over her lips like an exotic lip-paint, and leaned forward, kissing the symbol of Cyric. She fell into meditation, feeling the magic coursing through her veins, filling her very being with power beyond reckoning. Rising up, she drew a black silk robe about her body, cinching it tight about her waist, and walked the halls of her temple, bolstered by Cyric's treachery growing in her heart.

The counsel chamber was her second home, where she went during midday and just before nightfall, to offer advice to her followers. Advice that was, at its very heart, meant to mislead her patrons and trick them into actions that very well may ruin their very livelihood. Her grin was almost lascivious as she pulled the curtain shut and spread her robe open. She sat their naked, fingers buried in her pussy as her first patron entered the adjoining chamber. The screen between them masked her appearance from them, but they all knew she was there. And by the end of the hours she would spend in there, it would smell like her orgasms.

"Favored Soul," the first patron said. Tyran couldn't place her gender, for her voice was very strange, and her gaze, augmented by magic, saw right through the screen to the black-clad, white-skinned creature that seemed to be a blank slate as far as race and gender went.

"Child," she purred, her sweet voice made sweeter by a touch of magic. "Who are you?"

The person on the other side hesitated. "I thought..." she started, but shook her head. Tyran grinned at the white, featureless orb of a head shaking back and forth. How cute! "My name is Tyche."

"Tyche, how can I help you this day?"

"I am troubled," she said. "I have taken on duties I am not accustomed to, and I am afraid."

"Ah," Tyran said, taking a guess. "Prostitution? Whoring isn't so bad, my dear. Just be careful," she started to say, but the changeling shook its head again.

"No, no," she said, voice drifting off. "This is wholly anonymous?"

"Only I will ever know what you've spoken here," she lied. She shared some of the more vile and villainous stories with the select few she knew walked in the same light as she.

"I work for the Temple of Mask," she said. "I am an agent and operative, stealing secrets, and killing when I need to."

"There is no Temple of Mask in this city, little one," Tyran said with absolute certainty. She knew that Cyric had taken much from Mask, decades ago, and was certain that if there were another temple here, she would have heard about it.

"There is," Tyche said, but bit down quickly, clearly hesitant to say more than that. What a good secret-keeper! Of course, Tyran knew ways around that.

"Tell me of it," Tyran said, her magic coursing with her voice to make the changeling respond accurately and truthfully. A neat trick coming from a servant to the God of Lies.

"No," the changeling replied, setting Tyran back in her seat. She stopped idly fingering her cunt.

"Please, my dear, I must know more if I am to help you."

"Just...my mistress demands much from me, and expects much from me. I do not want to let her down. Is there anything you can do?"

Tyran sighed, looking down at the floor, at the black sun symbol artfully hidden in the woodwork, as if looking to Cyric for guidance. Surely he wouldn't want her aiding an agent of Mask, but what was she to do?

"Whatever she commands of you, do it to your fullest capability," Tyran said, frustrated. "And if you fail, then accept that you are not good enough for her."

The changeling sat up straighter. Her eyes narrowed and her face took the shape of a human woman, golden hair flowing from her bare scalp. Her breasts grew large, her body filling out with womanly, delicious curves. Tyran couldn't believe her magical eyes when she was looking at a half-decent mimicry of her own body. The changeling left the booth in a hurry, leaving Tyran there to ruminate on the encounter.

Her next patron was more her speed. Relationship issues, the likes of which she would weave into tawdry tales without regard to privacy at the next meeting she had with those she considered friends. She tuned out most of the tale, only bothering to note the important details: affair with noble girl, half the man's age, and wife was starting to get suspicious of the way he looked at the fourteen-year-old girl whenever she meandered past their trade-stall. This was the kind of story that would get the man killed, if the wrong ears heard it.

"Write a letter to the girl's father, exclaiming her love for the girl, declaring your intent to leave your wife and take her as your own," Tyran said, smirking as her fingers dipped deep into her loins, curling right against the little bundle of nerves within.

"Are...are you sure?" the man asked, clearly uncertain.

"The gods speak through me," Tyran assured the man.

He would be dead in a gutter in less than a tenday, and the prospect amused her.

She came, her cunt gushing over her fingers as the man left, likely to his own doom.

"I think I'm done with this for the day," she said to herself, pulling her black silk robe back around her body. She stormed out of her booth and back to her privacy, pulling the curtains open so that she could look out over Neverwinter. It was busy and bustling even into the dark night. She turned her gaze up to the Moonstone Mask, floating high above the city over the east end, and wondered if she should go indulge in the finest debaucheries.

Tyran, not known for her premeditation in such matters, simply nodded her head and changed into something decadently soft, revealing, and sparkly: black silk, with black sapphires stitched into its weaving, complete with a low-hanging diamond necklace and dangling sapphires from her ears. She cast a glamour, magic taking hold of her soft, silky locks and spinning them into ornate, fancy whorls, and her usual cosmetic affectations took hold. A combination of dark grey and gold accentuated her face, her lips glittering with a gold mist, eyes shadowed in darkness and lined in gold, and her cheeks contoured with gold makeup completed her look.

As soon as she left her private quarters, her mute servants were at her side, garbed in plate armor emblazoned with the symbols of the gods and wielding large maces and shields to guard her with. They flanked her but stayed respectfully behind her as she led them out of the temple's back door and back gate, inconspicuous and hidden from prying eyes. It wouldn't do to reveal her night-time predilections to her unwashed followers.

Their pace was swift, and the hulking, hairless mutes swept aside beggars without prejudice. They were at the dizzying heights of the wooden suspension bridges soon enough, and that was where she left her guards. Imperious as ever, she walked haughtily across the bridges without worrying for their precarious nature. The celestial blood in her veins, the source of her sorcerous power, would hold her aloft should things go awry.

She needn't have worried, for she was walking into the Moonstone Mask without incident, the scent of incense, wine, and pipesmoke rich in the air. She breathed it all in, feeling her head spinning at the intoxicating aromas, before a scantily clad serving girl approached her, a silver platter bearing wine in her hand.

Tyran took the wine, sipped it, and nodded her approval, dismissing the girl with a wave of her hand. Inspiration struck almost immediately after she sat on one of the oversized velvet sofas, the spinning silks of dancing girls and boys trying futilely to disrupt her sight. She smiled, her gold-painted lips curling into a devious curve as her eyes settled on her desire for the night.

A hulking half-orc, surprisingly handsome despite his dullard appearance, was surrounded with beautiful dancing girls and a few lads as well, and she wanted nothing more than to insert herself into that orgy of flesh. So she stood, her tall-heeled shoes carrying her loudly across the polished wooden floor, all the way to the massive half-orc, shoving girls out of the way.

The orc's face light up when he looked up at her, and she leaned over, her breasts nearly spilling out of her gown as she pressed her cheek against his, whispering in his ear. Golden light slipped past her lips like wisps of smoke, coiling around her voice as it seeped into his ear. He nodded, eyes half-lidded as he stood and left the Moonstone Mask.

The dancing girls were outraged, and even the matron of the Mask came over to scold her and kick her out of the festhall. But Tyran was not hearing any of that, watching the half-orc leaving the decadent place. Her magic propelled him, she knew, right off the edge of the earthmote, and she felt the magic end as surely as his life-force was snuffed out by the many-hundred-feet fall.

She giggled manically, golden eyes flashing dangerously as she thought to inflict more treachery. But her magic did not go unnoticed, and there were at least a handful of armed warriors—adventurers, likely—eyeing her dangerously. Despite her predilection for recklessness, she knew that there was a line, and that to cross it would surely be her downfall. So she peacefully left the Moonstone Mask, her gown slipping all about her body, revealing a hip here, a nipple there, the cleft of her loins at random...none of it mattered to her. She followed the half-orc's footsteps and channeled the magic coursing through her veins.

Golden wings sprouted from her back and carried her down to where the half-orc's broken body lay.

"Poor sod," she said, her lips curling into a frown as she knelt, her silken gown whispering around her thighs and parting, baring her nethers to the warm night air. She stroked the half-orcs face, splattered with blood, and whispered life-giving magic, directly from the divine influence flowing through her veins. Wounds knit together, but only so much as to allow him to live again. The half-orc groaned, looking up at the golden face of his savior, having no recollection of the last hour.

"You...save me?" the brute said, and Tyran nodded, leaning down to kiss the creature's forehead.

"Find yourself to the Celestial Temple," she purred in his voice, pouring just enough healing magic into his body to make him able. "Seek out Minister Alyn. He will tend to your wounds and offer any more assistance you may need."

The brute made his way to his feet, shakily, and bowed his gratitude to the woman. He scurried on, looking over his shoulder many times to gaze at her beautiful form. Tyran grinned darkly, watching the half-orc depart and wondering where else she might go for the night's ventures.

A rapier at her back had her thinking quickly, though, billowing up within her, ready for explosion. Instead, she turned to see a drow, of all things, her rapier black and gleaming with silver around its edges. The woman was pretty, but was much more petite than Tyran, which gave the haughty, prideful woman a bit of a false bravado.

"Can I help you?" she asked the drow.

"Who are you?" she asked, an edge to her voice. Tyran looked around, examining her surroundings. Nondescript buildings, all around, told her nothing. The only thing that seemed amiss about this person was how slowly she seemed to be breathing, and the way the shadows seemed attracted to her like metal shavings to a lodestone.

"I am Tyran Courte, High Priestess to the Gods of the Celestial Temple," she said, her voice was flippant and haughty as her demeanor. The drow was not visibly impressed, but Tyran knew she was rethinking skewering her. Still, though, the rapier held level, aimed right between her magnificent breasts. That was unacceptable.

Tyran, her golden eyes flashing dangerously, moved her hand to push the blade away. Much to her surprise, though, her hand moved right through the black metal, vapors of shadow trailing her fingers. "What is this?" she asked the drow.

"I will not tolerate your presence in this part of the city. I know exactly what you have done, and I have seen beyond your pretty façade. Come here again, and I will steal the life from your breast," the drow said in such a cold, vile tone that even Tyran felt a chill run down her spine.

"I will not forget this," she said, her face twisting in rage, backing away. "I will rain down fire on this alley before I let you dictate such terms to me!"

"And they shall not come nigh me," the drow said, whipping her blade away and vanishing in a cloud of shadows. But still, her disembodied voice spoke. "I have marked you, Tyran Courte. Do not test my mettle. There are powers in this city even your aasimar blood cannot see."

Lady Tyran Courte snarled, shouting into the darkness, before whisking herself away on golden wings.

*****

"Bloody Hells," Myrynda said, nearly snarling in rage. She'd seen the half-orc's entire plummet, watched him fall, helpless to aid him in any way, and watched the aasimar woman float down gracefully next to him. She knew something was amiss. She made a silent gratitude to Mask, not quite sure why the Lord of Thieves would take any interest in this, but grateful that she had been able to confront the villainess-apparent.

"Should we shadow her?" one of her knew aides asked, a shadowy creature with pallid skin and black tattoos all over her skin. Her scalp was clean-shaved, but that did nothing to diminish her beauty. The shadar-kai woman was wrapped in leathers, bearing all manner of symbols to different deities: Mask, obviously, as well as Loviatar, Lady of Pain, and Beshaba, the Goddess of Misfortune. These shadar-kai were a nihilistic, masochistic lot, and their loyalty was absolute.

"Yes, of course," Myr said, thumbing the black-rose hilt of her rapier. The lucky blade never missed its mark, and even mimicked her own state of mind—even when she was in shadow-form. She had truly been surprised when Tyran Courte's fingers whispered right through the blade, leaving a trail of black smoke in their wake. "Just you, though. Leave your sister. I'm not sure what this woman is capable of, and I would like to have a strong force here. Just in case."

"My Mistress," the other shadar-kai said. "Mask has hidden this place well. The bitch won't find it."

"Preparedness," Myr said, holding her finger up poignantly.

"Fortune's favor," the sisters said simultaneously, the trained response. Myr had learned much being on the surface, but being prepared for as many contingencies as possible she had learned in her youngest days as a drow princess.

The sisters nodded in unison, kissed each other, and Lucya, the shorter, slighter of the two, vanished into the shadows. Myrynda had absolute trust in that one for this task. She was a consummate spy and would only be seen if she wanted her presence known. The other, Ilvani, was only slightly taller, with slightly wider shoulders and hips, and the most lovely, small breasts Myrynda had ever laid lips upon. Eschewing the tight, constricting leathers and baubles of her sister, Ilvani wore simple, drab clothing—all blacks and grays—with twin silver spikes through each earlobe. The black streaks on her pallid skin were different than her sisters—like a fingerprint, the drow mused—but her shaved head was identical in shape. Both sisters had dim gray eyes, as if the Plane of Shadow that served as their home realm had drained the life-force from their very souls.