Neverwinter Heat Ch. 03

He pulled out of her, ejaculating into a goblet nearby. She smiled at him, thanked for his offering, and the Prince of Thieves left as abruptly as he came, stepping through the shadows to his home plane.

Sune lifted the goblet, watching as it drank the seed, absorbing its divinity little by little. She smiled, wondering what purpose she might eventually have for such a thing. Often, she thought, her peers underestimated her. The Goddess of Love and Beauty was a canny strategist, in her own right, and liked to be prepared.

*****

Varla had, of course, been privy to all the conversation during her mistress's meeting with Luriia and Hammer. She'd been fingering her dagger throughout the meeting, watching with anticipation. The steel had bit her flesh on more than one occasion, and she'd had to muffle a gasp at the sensation of her very life-force drifting into the hungry steel. Green mist flowed around her arm as it held the dagger, and she often scolded it silently, unsure that it even knew what it was doing. There was at least a rudimentary, primal sentience in the blade, she decided based on its thirst for blood.

By the time Tyran returned to her private room, Varla was sitting cross-legged at Tyran's vanity, watching the pair leave through the magical mirror that bore Cyric's black sun on each side and at the top. She was naked, bleeding from a dozen nicks along her fingers and thighs. Her body was slick with sweat, though it was a mild temperature within the room.

"What are you doing?" Tyran asked condescendingly. "Cutting yourself?"

"No," Varla said, still watching the mirror. Her cunt was dripping, though her arousal was modest at best. "It's the dagger. It has a mind of its own."

"Master it, then. Don't be so weak," Tyran snapped, stripping out of her gown, baring her perfect, golden body. Varla turned to look at her, biting her lip as she looked over the aasimar's body. "Have you cleaned yourself?"

"I have," Varla said, remembering the instruction she'd been given. The bath had only just drained. "How can I serve you?"

"Me?" the aasimar asked, scoffing. "You'll do nothing for me, foolish girl. I have other tasks for you. You watched the meeting, yes?"

"Yes," Varla said softly, nodding.

"Good. Then you know there is powerful divinity in both of those individuals?"

"I...only the drow, I thought..." Varla said, confused. Could Hammer truly be favored of the gods?

"Both of them. The human is weaker than the drow, but I don't think he realizes his own power. He may not even know a deity has given him a shard of their divinity." The aasimar moved to her bed, where toys were strewn about, freshly cleaned by Varla's own hands during her bath. She reclined, eyeing them before seizing a large, black toy. It was fashioned after one of her mutes, the hulking men eager to please their mistress even if it benefitted them not at all. They both had sat with their loins in a vat of plaster that molded around their erect shafts—kept magically erect for the purpose of that task alone, so that Tyran didn't have to do anything to keep them hard.

She started sliding the shaft up and down her slit, musing to herself. "If they are going to be a threat to our work here, they must be dealt with."

Varla nodded, standing in the middle of the room with blood trickling from a dozen pricks, skin glistening with sweat, her pert, round breasts rising and falling gently.

"You know them, don't you?" Tyran asked, teasing herself still. Her golden gaze bored into Varla, and the woman nodded. "Tell me of them."

Varla thought for a moment, trying to piece together the bits of story she could tell Tyran. "Hammer and Luriia are joined at the hip, and they'll not be separated. You could never split them up, no matter how hard you try. I've tried to keep Hammer to myself, to no avail."

"Yes, but you are obviously weaker than Luriia," Tyran said, interrupting, but Varla was shaking her head negative already.

"That's not why he's with her. He loves her, purely."

"Love is a lie," Tyran said.

Varla shrugged. "Whether it is or not is irrelevant. They believe in it, and it binds them together. Even their friends, an elf named Iliara and a tiefling named Cyra, are so dedicated to Luriia, even if they do not share the same goddess or cause."

Tyran seemed flustered at this, jamming the thick toy into her cunt.

"Luriia's friends will not betray her, and if they ever decided to come against you, they would be hard to stop. There are stories within Mask's Bounty that Luriia led Hammer into the Underdark, to the very heart of a drow metropolis, to rescue her sister and friends from the clutches of her own Matron Mother. With magic and steel, and the aid of a dragon, according to some stories."

"Preposterous," Tyran said, dismissing all but one facet of that tale: "There is no such place called Mask's Bounty."

Then, Varla grinned a knowing grin. "Yes," she said, "there is."

Tyran stopped masturbating and tossed her toy to the side, standing up on the bed, towering imperiously over Varla.

"Where?" she snapped, golden fire burning in her eyes and from her back, like wings.

"Beneath the Moonstone Mask. Mistress Myrynda Torviir, Luriia's sister, is the Demarchess of Mask and de facto high priestess of Mask in Neverwinter." Varla smirked. "I used to work in the baths, before I was visited by our mutual acquaintance and gifted with this dagger and magical power the likes of which I've never even heard of before."

"Indeed?" Tyran asked, a grin growing on her face. "So, you've been there, within, and know its secrets?"

"Yes, but I would never be invited back. I left on...poor terms. I threatened Luriia and Myrynda the night I came to you."

"Such a shame," Tyran asked with a bit of contempt. "You must do this for me, regardless."

"I would be slain!" Varla said, surprised.

"With this new power that the creature Lascivya has granted you?" Tyran asked, pursing her lips into a smirk. "I think not."

Varla considered that. Tyran was pleased she didn't need any magic to bend this fool's mind. The red-haired woman nodded eagerly. "I can do it," she said, finally, after many minutes of thought.

"Tonight," Tyran said, and Varla nodded. "But first, eat me."

Varla grinned eagerly, crawling between the woman's thighs and dutifully lapping at her sweet, sweet cunt.

*****

Grey hands held blades as though they were natural extensions of his arms. The glinting steel spun through the air with blinding speed, the body attached to the swords moving in perfect harmony and balance. A mixture of footwork and superior agility coupled with strength passed down from his father made him a deadly weapon, though there were no targets for the adolescent to attack. This was all just a game, to him. Just a play of steel and flesh.

Clapping hands answered his display, and two women faced him when he turned around. One with scarlet hair, the other with blonde hair, both beautiful in their own right. They clearly approved of his dance, for that was all it was to him. He'd never considered using this skill for violence. It was simply a pleasure to him, to exert and to train, to apply his itching desire to move into something beautiful.

After all, he had a natural instinct for finding beauty in almost everything.

The women beckoned for more, so he thought of his training, of the forms and techniques he had learned over the years, and slowly moved into another dance of steel and flesh. It wasn't as flashy, nor was it overly complex. It was a simple, elegant way of moving with his steel. It was efficient. It was beautiful without complexity. Simply beautiful, at least to his mind. Every movement was crisp, defined, without compromise and without hesitation. He knew each movement by heart and muscle memory.

He finished the routine simply by stabbing forward with both blades—a double-thrust low. The steel spun in his hands and found their homes in the scabbards at his belt. His bare torso was soaked in sweat so much that even his trousers were damp down to the thighs.

The half-drow bowed respectfully at the two women—women he knew were of great import, but didn't know why. He'd never been taught that. They embraced him, coddled him, fed him, but as he left their home, the world took a dark, menacing appearance. Shadows grew like monstrous creatures all around him and a black-clad man with ivory flesh stood before him, golden eyes gleaming with black slits for pupils, and a maw of perfectly white teeth gleaming beneath them.

Daggers appeared in the dark man's hands, and the half-drow drew steel. They began their dance as they had many times before, daggers seeking his vital organs. But he was agile and fast, and when he couldn't dodge the unerring daggers, he knocked them away with brute strength. His swords slammed into the dark man's forearms, but the limbs were like steel, ringing against the blows even as they were swept aside.

The man's laughter made the half-drow nauseous, but he fought through the torment. He could feel his ears start to bleed whenever he landed a blow, the dark man shouting in pain—but also in humor. The half-drow was encouraged, and fought more furiously this time than the last, his muscles taut from exertion but his stamina far from flagging. Steel rang in constant song as the dark man's daggers met every swipe of his sword.

There was a marked difference, now. The dark man was not toying with the young upstart swordsman, but rather revealing more and more of his own prowess with the blade. He couldn't keep up with the daggers, and was soon falling back. From nowhere, a dagger arced in at his heart, and the half-drow couldn't twist away fast enough.

But a thunderous retort stopped the dagger, expoding out from behind the half-drow and knocking the dark man back, who was now sneering with open contempt.

The half-drow felt—and did not need to turn and see—the massive mountain of muscle behind him. This one, he knew, was there to protect him from the dark man. Whatever game the smaller man was playing with him, the half-drow knew it would not end in his demise, because the great warrior would protect him with his flaming sword. The dark man bowed, shadows receding as he departed.

Quickly, the half-drow turned. To this point, he had never seen the great warrior that always appeared just before the dagger landed in his heart. He thought, maybe, if he was quick enough he could catch a glimpse of the man.

This time, he was not disappointed, as before. Tall, broad, with long dark hair and a short beard, was a man he surely recognized.

"Calafein," he said in a voice that was too playful to belong to such a great warrior.

"Calafein," he said again, and his flaming sword disappeared.

Calafein opened his steel-blue eyes to see his father hovering over him.

The infant could only sputter his frustration at being awoken from his nap, and that he could not communicate what he had just dreamt. And what he continued to dream every time he slept.