The Apostate Ch. 03

Vath smiled. "That isn't necessary, Tyche."

The changeling bowed, its milky white skin and featureless eyes utterly placid as it went back to the bath to clean up the splashed water and dry the stone flooring. Varla awaited Vath at the bath. When the half-orc entered the pool again, the woman took her by the face and gave her a most passionate kiss.

"Those two have caused us all much trouble. Thank you," she said.

Vath looked surprised, then smiled, kissing Varla back and pulling her supple body against her.

Her rage hadn't yet ended, and the burning blood in her veins was quickly turning to other desires.

*****

Cyra and Iliara were snuggled up next to each other, as usual. Neither of them registered the fact that their new friend wasn't in bed with them, but after Cyra's vivid nightmare, she was simply lost in the fugue between sleep and wakefulness, perfectly comfortable in Iliara's slender arms.

"You two are too easy to find," said a female voice, hard and sounding irritated. "Wake up, quickly now."

Cyra groaned. "We need to start setting traps," she muttered to the elf, who growled herself awake. Still recovering from her nightmare, Cyra was hardly in the mood for unannounced visitors. They both propped themselves up, recognizing their visitor and the fact that Vath was gone simultaneously.

"Where's Vath?" Iliara asked.

"I don't know who you're talking about," said the woman. She stood to her full height, her tail swishing back and forth in agitation and her black, leathery wings spreading out wide.

"Lidia," Cyra said. "Lidia fucking Lovedrake."

"Hello, sister," the half-dragon said to Cyra, her pale skin wrapped in beautifully crafted leathers: corset, boots, belts, garters, all of which gleaming with metal studs and spikes. "We need to talk."

"Yes, we do," Cyra said, her voice growing a bit weak. It didn't take much for her to piece together the half-dragon's arrival. Her half-sister had been sired by the same red dragon, but her mother's, Alluva Lovedrake, genetics must have been more dominant, somehow, for her to be so pale of skin with black wings and black hair.

Cyra brushed her platinum hair out of her face and rose out of bed, not bothering to cover her nudity quickly. She wasn't afraid to bare herself to Lidia, who she had fucked quite vigorously before finding out their relation. She lazily pulled a thin grey shift over her ruddy skin, long enough to cover the tops of her thighs, just barely.

Iliara also clothed herself.

"You had the dream?" Lidia asked.

"Aye, you know what it means?"

"No, but mother sent me to find you and find out."

"I only had it last night, when did you have it?"

"A tenday ago," she replied, "but that is no matter. He's nearby, and there's no telling what he's going to be up to. I've only heard stories of what he's capable of, and I'm not willing to let this happen to any more women."

"Agreed," Cyra said.

"Excuse me, but what is going on?" Iliara asked.

"Our father," Cyra said. "A red dragon. He performed experiments on women. Seduced them with magic, then impregnated them and made...us. Who knows how many more of us there are."

Iliara gasped, putting a hand to her mouth. "What can we do? What about Lura? And Vath?"

"If Vath is the woman I think she is, she'll be with us, axes at the ready. As for Lura...we will have to trust in Sune's hand. There's nothing we can do as of now."

"Agreed," Iliara said. Lidia stepped forward, putting her hands on Cyra's shoulders.

"I knew I could count on you, sister," she said, then leaned in for a very passionate, very deep kiss. "Come, my mother is to meet us in a cottage north of here, where she has a friend who intends to help in our quest."

"Well enough. We will gather our comrade and meet you there. Or, if you wish, you can remain," Cyra said. "Our hospitality is limited to this bed and whatever the nearby taverns are cooking."

"Normally, I would take the bed with you two any night of the week. Or morning. Or...well, you get the idea. But I was thoroughly fucked upon arrival. Had to get it out of my system, you know? Let's eat."

They left a note for Vath on the table by the only door leading into the apartment, then moved out to a more reputable establishment than Vath had gone to. The Rusty Saber was another, off the beaten path tavern that they enjoyed, for it helped them avoid a majority of the populace. Lidia Lovedrake would draw a great amount of attention with her wings and claws and all the draconic features she sported, so the seclusion of the Rusty Saber was ideal.

Sure, the wary looks they got were a touch uncomfortable, but most of them were staring at Lidia and Cyra's impressive busts. The barkeep was quick to serve them breakfast and juice and light ales, likely figuring they'd be up to trouble if he didn't show them proper service. But they weren't looking for trouble, and were in and gone within an hour. Vath hadn't shown up yet, but they didn't think anything of it. Likely, she was eating.

They saw her coming out of a back alley bar on their way home, skin gleaming and short hair limp around her face. Her eyes widened when she saw her two friends and the very obvious half-dragon walking with them.

"Cyra, Iliara," she said, "who is this?"

"Lidia Lovedrake," Cyra said. "My sister. Were you in Mask's Fancy?"

"Aye, for a bath. And stuff."

Iliara snickered.

"Get your axes," Cyra said. "You likely won't see much luxuries in the next few tendays."

"Why?"

Cyra grinned. "We're going dragon hunting."

Vath shouted in excitement. "Glory, pride and bloodshed!"

*****

Matron Mother Laudra Torviir had done only a few things in her five hundred seventy-three years of life that she found truly distasteful. The first was birthing male triplets. She remembered that keenly, for the searing pain of three worthless souls falling from her womb had plagued her for five hundred fifty-eight years. Another was learning her eldest daughter, her most powerful and most promising priestess, and heir to her House, was an apostate, and having to swallow the bile of that realization after she'd gone out of reach of her retribution.

Her House was middling in the pecking order of Menzoberranzan, but that did nothing to temper their pride. The twenty-third House was widely known for its works of art, its deathsingers—drow bards whose magic wove death and malaise—and its promiscuity. House Torviir had more ties to the higher Houses than any other thanks to the seductresses Matron Torviir had birthed. A dozen of them were firmly entrenched in the beds of Matrons, high priestesses, Mistresses of Arach-tinilith, and so forth. Matron Torviir claimed more granddaughters than most Houses had slaves.

She'd whored herself out to a hundred Houses. Her daughters fucked their way through dozens on their own. Her sons had mated with females of all races to produce just the right types of slaves and soldiers to augment her army. Her patrons had sired daughters and granddaughters alike.

Matron Torviir's power wasn't in her army, nor in her wealth. It wasn't in her magic or her devotion to the goddess, though neither were in any way wanting.

Matron Torviir's power was in sex.

There was no magic in the world powerful enough to keep her loins as tight and snug as her younger daughters', but that did not bother her. Her ass had taken such a pounding over the years that it was simply a matter of course. Her throat had served as sleeve for archmages, weapons masters, magically mutated sorceresses, and the cocks of creatures obscure and, some might say, vile.

But Matron Torviir was never challenged by another House. She was never threatened by her daughters. None had attempted to assassinate her in five hundred and sixty-three years, since the first time she'd learned to please another woman.

She sat on a throne of jet, its high back carved with images of drow women in the throes of bliss and agony, all under the chaotic whims of Lolth, who dealt sexual pleasure and pain in equal measure. Before her was one of many ritualistic orgies that had graced her throne room this day. Four different Houses had gathered, male and female alike, and there were ropes of cum, puddles of female cream, buckets of piss and other less than savory liquids that were a byproduct of sexual overuse, and a pile of clothing at the foot of her throne. She, herself, was sitting naked, legs splayed with the matrons of each house serving her feet, thighs, and cunt. She'd cum a countless amount in the last hour, and couldn't stop the flow of piss running down her throne even if she wanted to.

Her mind was in a fog of bliss, the control over her body lost from overstimulation. And she reveled in it. At the end of this day, her House will have risen five spots. The debaucheries that House Torviir contained were legendary among her neighbors in rank. This was an aberration, an orgy for function. Most were simply for fun, to relish in their culture of excess and decadence.

Moreover, there was only one rule within her House orgies: assassination attempts were met with swift and bloody reprisal. The unspoken exception was "don't get caught." Torviir had removed many dead bodies from the throne room floor. She wondered how many of those were drow that didn't know when to stop when a cock was lodged down their throat, how many were erotic asphyxiations gone too far, and how many, exactly, were truly assassinations.

Eunuchs milled about, about a half dozen of her bastard males who had shown no promise whatsoever or had simply been born dumb on account of inbreeding, offering services to those who required them: wiping errant cum off of someone's eyes, applying an oily lubricant, fluffing a male who had gone limp from overuse, and so forth.

Torviir turned her head down to look at the five Matron Mothers servicing her. Matrons Mourlefey, Baensek, Auvryana, Del'sin, and Ssinsrigg all looked up at her expectantly. She nodded, her gaping cunt and asshole leaking lubrication, faux cum conjured by her cohorts for conjured appendages, and spit. They knelt at the foot of her throne, bowed down each to kiss her feet.

"With the blood and sweat and nectar we have shared today, I bind you," Matron Torviir said, her voice carrying the force of her will over their Houses. "This day, you lift my House up in rank and reduce your own. In return, you will each bear daughters in your wombs that will aid our six Houses to glory."

The magic took hold and five of her daughters walked up the steps, each with a long, thick, black cock hanging form their hips. Prodigious breasts were heavy and pierced, bound with magical metal. Their navels were ringed in runes that produced the cocks between their thighs. Without words, they began rutting their assigned Matron Mother.

Magic was heavy in the air, fertility abounding. Torviir began rubbing her abused, swollen cunt, working herself up yet again this night, and she felt her libido tune in with her daughters. They were both ascending a mountain of ecstasy together, and the effect was infectious. The matron mothers began howling in orgasm, their fucktunnels milking the daughters Torviir. And the rest of the assembled priestesses, elderboys, secondboys, weapons masters, sorcerers and sorceresses rode the mounting climax.

As one, every drow in the chamber climaxed, and the magic came to fruition. Seed took hold within womb, and all five matron mothers instantly knew they were pregnant with powerful offspring.

"The goddess blesses your House," Matron Baensek said. "My warriors fight with you."

The rest of the Houses took up the pledge: Mourlefey pledged her priestesses, Auvryana her blackguards, Del'sin her wizards, and Ssinsrigg her spies and assassins.

The pact was complete.

All that remained was the sacrifice of her eldest daughter, the apostate Luriia Torviir.