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The Feud Ch. 01

By: Sneakingsuspicion



Author's notes: This will be a more plot-focused erotica. If you're looking for straight-to-the-point sex, this isn't it. At least not in this Chapter. Expect at least one more to come, and a final one after that if enough people enjoy it.

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"And with the last light of day, she was gone," the man murmured, "and within me, the night was born."

Victor set down his quill and held up the parchment to the soft candlelight. The Hero's Welcome was not the most orthodox place to work on an autobiography, but since the Scourge threat had been neutralized, it was certainly quieter one. He stretched his legs rested them in a half-cross over the painted stone tiles underfoot. Basking in the warm candlelight and the gentle music, he held up his glass of Dalaran Red to his nose, reflected upon his long journey to glory and power, and finished it. At last, his story would be told—the first chapter of his autobiography was complete, and it was off to a fantastic start. He tucked his ink and quill away and placed the parchment with the rest, placing his hand gently upon it in piqued satisfaction.

The piece would speak of his years as a mage, his dissatisfaction with the 'mundane arcane', as he had lovingly dubbed it, it spoke of his love and loss—

"Their loss," Victor said aloud to himself. He would not allow the thoughts of old flames to sour this moment. Writing his memoirs brought him joy that he could only experience if he had lived his life twice over... and still, the best was yet to be recorded! His rise as a warlock, his breakthrough studies in demonic magic, his close encounters with death, and his ascension from a petty wizard to a fearsome gladiator! No, he would not allow a woman or two or five spoil his innumerable triumphs; and yet one walked in that had certainly trumped them.

Thelise Dor'elna was as well known and respected amongst her kind as Victor was among humanity; though where she was revered for her grace, purity, and determination, he was feared for his cruelty, methods, and ambition. It was an uncommon site to see a priest and a warlock share a gaze for as long as they did, and far rarer one for one to join the table with the other. Victor all but gawked as the high elf priestess emerged from the light of the doorway. Her face was full, healthy, and spoke of her eternal youth. Her cream complexion almost seemed to emit a soft glow, but it was nothing compared to her naturally luminescent blue eyes. Good looks were relatively common amongst her people, but that did not keep Victor from his thoughts: how wonderful it would be to part her lips with his own, and to penetrate them with—

Thelise cleared her throat as she stood behind a chair.

"May I take this seat?"

Victor gave her a simple incline of the head in acknowledgement. Beautiful as she was, the holy caste was all that kept his kind from far greater endeavors than meager brawls in the pit. Still, his filthy thoughts hungered, and so he molested her with his eyes a bit longer. Thelise stepped aside and planted herself in the seat; only then did he notice her clothes. She dressed in a rather traditional robe (which meant that it was covered in a distracting amount of pointless embroideries), and her mantle bore the ghostly visage of chained and blindfolded woman; presumably the spirit of justice or some priestly nonsense. Still, experienced-in-battle as she was, Thelise's robe featured a long slit along the side, granting her better movement and revealing her less conservative leggings.

He took note of her black stalking as as Thelise crossed her legs. A lock of silver hair fell out from beneath her hood, and she flipped it back in order to hold her gaze upon him. She was not at all pleased to be in the presence of a warlock—there was a distinct curtness to her words.

"Victor Naught."

"In the flesh," he said with a smile, "And you are...?"

"Please, spare me your tactics of courtship. You know exactly who I am and therefore you know exactly why I'm here."

He sat back his chair, slightly less amused but certainly more focused, "Do I, now?"

"I'm in the need of a partner—"

"I prefer the company of shamans... which doesn't say much for you. At least the 'Earthmother' respects the importance of night as well as day, and I'm appreciative of that."

"This is more important than your goblin-run arena skirmishes. This is a deathmatch."

He shrugged casually, "Been there, done that, sweetheart. I've seen what lies on the other side; do you forget who I am? What I'm capable of?"

"There will be no resurrection from this battle, Victor. Your remains will be disposed of. Its purpose has every ounce of magnitude as the day that Lordaeron fell."

Victor's saliva seemed to curdle in his own mouth at the mere mention of such a tragedy. He took his glass of wine and went for a sip, but there was nothing left to save him from the grisly memory. He had lost all too many to Prince Arthas' betrayal, and he loathed the unliving because of it. Thelise's soothing presence and flawless appearance consoled him without words, and so he remembered his manners and called for the waitress.

"Another glass, miss, and the lady will have the same."

Thelise showed no response to the gesture, but there seemed to be a mutual understanding beginning to take hold. Victor had given her his full attention.

"Explain yourself."

The elf leaned forward and pressed her fingertips together as she began to explain. Of their own accord, Victor's eyes traveled in search of cleavage, but her robe lacked any such cut that would indulge him in such a manner. It was likely intentional.

"Too long have we endured the filth in this city. Too long have the Sunreavers taken up residence and safe haven within our walls and behind our protective barriers. Even you can agree that the brutish Horde have no place in the Kingdom of Magic."

Victor shook his head. "I'm not their biggest fan and vice versa, but—"

"The time for action is at hand. The Silver Covenant and the Sunreavers have agreed to put an end to the feud once and for all, but with minimal bloodshed. A two-on-two fight to the death... if we high elves prove victorious, the filthy blood elves will leave the city for good, and Dalaran will once-again belong to the Alliance. My people will belong to the Alliance, truly and totally."

He held his hands up, "I don't care for politics, Thelise. I admit I know and care little of what society needs or the Alliance wants." Two glasses appeared in front of them with almost suddenly; the waitress had appeared and slipped away without a sound. Victor sipped his wine. "What you're saying is beautiful, wonderful, but what's in it for me?"

" What's in it for you?!" the priestess echoed with shock and appall, "You will be the man who rights all of what went horribly wrong in the Third War, the one who reunites and revives the bond between the high elves and humanity, you will spring eternal in history, Victor Naught will be remembered forever as—"

She stopped as she felt his hand on her knee from beneath the table. "What else is in it for me?"

The high elf shuddered and a faint hue appeared in her cheeks. He could tell at her expression that she had encountered few men so brash in her life as a priestess, and though she had not lived for hundreds or even thousands of years as many of her brethren had, she was a prodigy in the art of combat. He knew of her prowess in battle, but doubted her wisdom. Though the glass could easily reveal what was going on, the positions of the candle, the glasses, and Victor's half-finished plate of food all served to conceal his mischief in an uncanny way.

As she did not immediately remove him, he slowly began to gently rub her thigh. It was unfortunate that she received the glass of wine so soon, but he figured that the best that could come from his advance was her throwing it in his face. At worst, he would lose his hand. It was a pure oddity that neither had happened immediately, and so he allowed instinct to guide him. Victor's hand began to travel along the lady's thigh, gently squeezing at her as his eyes fixed on hers. Her cheeks began to flush like rose petals, but he could not discern whether she was consumed with rage or something else.

Victor's hand traveled further and under her robe as her lips parted to release a shallow breath. Every inch—every diameter he trespassed upon Thelise's body seemed to effortlessly bring down another line of her defenses. She was limber; fit, but not muscular... he marveled at the realization that he could actually attest to this, and that this was actually occurring with someone of her position and stature, but Victor did not pause to question it. He could not hesitate or it could mean certain failure. Thelise's eyes scanned the restaurant in search of witnesses, but there were none who met her gaze.

Victor's sights were locked upon her, but inside he was jubilant to pass beyond her stockings and discover her garter.

His bare flesh met hers; how he longed to have an encounter with a high elf maiden—but not all was as he imagined. Her thigh was no less lean, and her skin no softer than the very stockings held tight to the rest of her leg, but it was not as smooth as he anticipated. Thelise pushed his hand away and fixed her robe, straightening it out before she took a very generous drink from her wine glass (much to Victor's relief when he saw her reach for it). His mind was not on her reaction, however, but on the scars he felt upon her thigh. Thelise looked at him with shame but looked at him still. He was not repulsed in the least; far be it for him, a warlock, to judge those who self-harm, but he was left confused... and still hopelessly aroused.

"I'll consider your... proposition," she said with her eyes darting over the room once more, "if you'll accept mine."

Though he had almost forgotten it, Victor had decided to accept her invitation long before that; he derived great thrill from risk and battle. It seemed that his greatest triumphs were those where the death's grip was just out of reach, but even on those seldom occasions when his spirit would break free from his mortal shell and drift into the darkness, he would shortly after be beckoned back to the land of the living by some gifted healer. The thought that, this time, there would be no such 'safety net'—that at long last, his story may very well find an end, enthralled him.

Still, he had no intent of missing out on the sweet and supple opportunity sitting across from him. Visibly shaken as she was, he opted to calm her by holding fast to the issues.

"And what happens if we fail, Thelise?"

"Wh-what?"

She looked more unnerved than before. He wasn't the most skilled at handling the color wheel of emotions at the disposal of the opposite sex. Still, he pressed on with his strategy. "The battle. If we lose, what will happen to your people?"

"My people... My people," she began, "... I don't. I don't want to think about that. Not now. What do you care, anyway?" she spat at him. The elf recoiled and folded her arms, facing her body away and looking at Victor like he was no more than a serpent in search of an easy meal. Faint lines appeared on her face, and though they did little to detract from her appearance, they spoke volumes of her disgust and dissatisfaction with him. Victor felt that any vestige of amity between them had gone up in smoke. Though it was true that he did not care for her people, there was an awful tremor stirring from within him... and it told him not to let her go.

"It was merely a question," Victor defended himself with a casual tone, as if he had not been mere inches from her virginity only a minute prior.

"And it's one I don't care to answer! Failure is not an option, Naught, now do we have a deal?"

"We do," he answered without hesitation.

"Then sign this," Thelise produced a small scroll from her hip, which unfurled to be a charter. She offered him an inked quill, and though he was prepared to use his own, he felt strangely inclined to take hers, simply because it was hers. Victor overreached and touched her fingertips in the exchange; her fingers were cold with what he assumed with nervousness, but hands were delicate and small. He avoided her eyes, lest he become entranced by the vibrant blue glow and embarrass himself. He was fascinated— perhaps a smitten with the young lady. Having taken an interest in his share of women over the years, Victor knew there was much undue grief in denial, and so he wasted no time with the process.

But something told him that he could not fight this sensation if he tried. It was not love—he had known love before, but it was not as raw and brazen as lust. It was simply... intrigue. He passed the parchment back to her.

"Good. Now that our affairs are in order, I bear a letter from Lady Windrunner."

Victor paused mid-sip from his new glass of wine. "Excuse me?"

"A sealed letter, I might add, and it was hand-delivered to me from the Ranger General, herself."

"The... THE Ranger General. Herself."

"I hope the gravity of the situation has impressed itself upon you." Thelise rose from her seat and muttered, "My business is concluded here. We'll meet again."

The letter Victor had received was incredibly brief for the level of security it was given, and he pondered why Thelise hadn't been bothered to pass the information along, herself. It thanked him for his agreement to help and repeated much of what she had already informed him, but included an invitation to stay at the Violet Citadel the next evening. Considering the stature of the woman who had written it, he felt inclined to appear. His arrival was cordial but uneventful, and his teleportation to his room was jarring, to say the least, but as he found himself with ample time to prepare for the dinner banquet, he couldn't help but marvel at the design.

The weather in Northrend was always brisk, and at the altitude of Dalaran, magical precautions were necessary to prevent the harsh winds of Icecrown from freezing the very streets. Still, in his room high upon the citadel spire, the very stone tiles beneath him seemed to be enchanted to resist the chill. An octuplet of large, white marble columns stretched high to the ceiling, which bore a stained glass design of sapphire blue. Similar windows of golden hue encircled the room, and despite it being late in the day, all seemed to glow as soft as the harvest moon. A large, indigo design loosely resembling a four-sided star was set in the center of the floor, pointing almost directly to the exit, a pair of bookcases, the full-sized bed (with a rich violet canopy supported by the posts), and finally his dresser, which bore an ornate golden mirror.

Victor combed his dark brown hair as he scrutinized his reflection. He was always fond of his goatee and trimmed it with the utmost care. When coupled with his thin, slightly pointed nose and fair complexion, his appearance wasn't dissimilar to that of a clean-cut satyr—and more than one woman had attempted to insult him with this fact. He adjusted the collar on his black filigreed doublet, which suited his thinner, slightly willowy form much better than it would a broader man, and pondered whether the Lady Windrunner would expect a test of his magical prowess. The letter had not mentioned anything of the sort, and so he decided dress with formality in mind. Having unpacked his necessities, he set out to explore what he could of the Violet Citadel before dinner was served.

When Victor opened the door he was shocked to see a red-haired, high elven man marching into his room. A tabard featuring the shining white sun of the Silver Covenant held fast to his formal attire as he stood proudly aside. He tilted his head up to herald: "Ranger General Windrunner approaches!"

No more than a second later had Vereesa Windrunner appeared in his doorway in the flesh. He felt inclined to bow but could not bring himself to kneel, being intruded upon in his own sanctum of all places. She was just slightly taller than Victor and her long, platinum locks rested buoyantly upon her armored shoulders. The Silver Covenant tabard was almost fit-to-form, and though Victor did not dare to ogle her (for awe and for respect for her husband, one of the most powerful mages alive), Vereesa had an ample chest, and was in such shape that he almost wondered whether she had ever left the battlefield. Though she likely had centuries to yet live, her face bore vague traces of her years spent in the Second and Third Wars, most note-worthy among them being a much fairer skin tone than her kin.

"Enough formality, Zale. I must request a private word."

The herald left quickly, as if he were as intimidated as Victor had felt. The great wooden door shut behind him with an audible clunk, but Vereesa looked over her shoulder to be certain, none-the-less. Victor attempted to open his mouth but she cut him off before so much as a sound could escape.

"The situation you have been briefed on is one I have willingly and knowingly set in motion; an official agreement made between Aethas Sunreaver and I. I have selected Thelise to undertake this course of action because I know she is capable of doing whatever the Silver Covenant requires of her; she has proven that time and time and time again. She is a highly-skilled, highly-trained, highly-efficient healer. That said, you have proven nothing to me and my people."

"I—"

"Silence," she said with all the authority of any man in her position. "You have proven yourself handy in the arena and though I cannot say this will be the same as some goblin-muddled pit fight, I can assure you of certain details. First I emphasize that as of yesterday's charter signing you have officially been placed under my command, is that understood?"

"Wait a minute, w—"

Vereesa's open hand smashed into the side of his face, sending Victor a few steps from where he had stood. He had barely regained his senses when she continued.

"If you'd like to review it, I have your contract right here. You can wipe your tears with it, if you'd like." She tossed the scroll at him and Victor took it, but he had a feeling she would continue regardless of whether or not he would like to validate her words.

"I will concede that you were my first choice, Mr. Naught, but I will not titillate you with any further flattery. This operation must be a success, and furthermore upon that, it must be a GREAT success. A clear success. The Alliance, Horde, and all the city of Dalaran must bear witness to your undisputed triumph over the Sunreaver combatants.

"I want the forests of Quel'thelas to wither in disgrace at what its children have become. I want Kalimdor to recoil with rage at the monsters upon its soil. I want all of Eastern Kingdoms to speak of the magic-hungry filth that dares take residence at its helm, and I want all of Northrend to hear of their shameful defeat for a hundred years to come.

"Victor, your job is not only to vanquish your opponents, but to expose them for all that is impure and condemnable in their nature—in their very being. They must be humiliated."

Though Vereesa's words were steady and rang true with militaristic determination, her eyes were alight with a hateful fire. Victor was thankful that this would be a match to the death, because he did not want to encounter her should they fail. Regardless, he doubted he had heard her correctly when she stated that he was her first choice for such a task. How could he, of all people, expose others for what is "impure and condemnable"? As Victor mulled over the concept for a few moments more, he came to understand how a warlock, who some consider among the lowest in society, might serve to emphasize the point she wanted to make.


The Feud Ch. 01



"As I stated earlier, we can ascertain certain details. This matter is of the highest priority, and with that, I cannot allow certain variables to remain unaccounted for. It has already been set forth in the agreement with the Sunreavers that the battle will take place in Dalaran sewers. Some of the goblin-engineered gimmicks will be axed. Some. Should you get 'jitters' before the fight and fail to crawl out of your hole, you will still be ejected... violently."

"Understood."

"I didn't ask. There are no holds and no rules. The world will be watching, but no one will stop you. If you have an ace up your sleeve, play it. If you have a dagger at your side, use it. We are the Alliance. We are nobility, but our crest is the beast. We fight for honor, but we fight with savagery." She paused, holding Victor's gaze with solemnity. Vereesa did not ask him to affirm her statement, let alone repeat it back to her; she assessed him herself, and solely through the eyes.

"We're still gathering information on who the Sunreavers have selected. For the time being, I insist that you enjoy your dinner but do not overindulge. Your downstairs neighbor is someone you must become very familiar with, and over the coming week the two of you will dissolve any animosity you might harbor toward one-another. That is an order."

Victor nodded blankly, the Ranger General having earned his unerring respect with a strike worthy of a warrior wearing gauntlets. Vereesa appeared to smile at this sign of obedience.

"The sooner the better, warlock."

The high elf turned to depart, but as she pressed her hand to the door, Victor hesitantly called to her. She gave him only a slight turn of the head.

"Thelise was unclear... what will happen if we fail?"

Vereesa turned and opened the door. She stepped into the hall before responding, "Don't. Fail."

It wasn't solely upon Vereesa's insistence that Victor ate lightly that evening. The encounter with the Ranger General had left his nerves so on edge that he retreated from the banquet after consuming only a pair of croissants and bite of delicious chocolate cake (which, though delicious, did little to change his mood). The dinner wasn't entirely fruitless, he thought, as he wandered up to his room with a bottle of pinot noir in his hand. Granted, Thelise was alone most of the evening and Victor hadn't worked up the nerve to approach her even casually, but she was probably encumbered by her own thoughts and concerns—perhaps she even got the same "briefing" that Windrunner gave him.

But the less wine left in his bottle, the more at ease he felt. He did not want to disappoint his commander, predominantly out of fear, and seeing Thelise again revived that the familiar feeling of intrigue that had drawn him to her the day before. After mistakenly climbing the wrong spire (of which there were several), he found his way to her floor and still had a half-bottle of wine left in hand. Victor rapped on the door steadily, and from behind the thick layer of wood, he was a certain a murmur that signaled him to come in.

The handle gave no resistance as he pushed his way inside. Her room was not unlike his, but his eyes feasted only upon Thelise. The elf sat upon the tile with her legs outstretched and her gown high above her thighs—his interest piqued and his body began to stir, but as he peered on, he found nothing that tantalized him, only thin red cuts along her bare thighs. His presence was quickly noticed.

"Victor—what, why are you here!?" she questioned him, concealing herself and her instrument.

He shut the door and approached her, "There are many off-key medical treatments, many ancient rituals for which one must shed their own blood, but none of them are to be done in a place such as this, or by someone like you."

"My reasons are my own, warlock. Leave!" Thelise's cries faltered as Victor, under the influence of wine, or a glimmer of his own morality, continued toward her. "This is my room...! Begone!" The high elf stood on her feet, he shimmering white mooncloth gown falling gracefully down to her ankles. The fabric seemed to emit a soft, pure light that made the young woman appear all the more radiant, though the blur in Victor's eyes somewhat exaggerated the effect.

"Just tell me why, Thelise. Is it death you wish for—"

"No, I—this is a custom! An ancient custom."

"Don't toy with me, elf." Victor lunged at her and Thelise rose the dagger high, poising to strike, but he grasped her wrists and squeezed them tightly. "I may have had some wine... but I am no fool!" At last Thelise relinquished, dropping the weapon from her hand. It hit the ground with a clamor, and still she resisted him, tears welling in her eyes.

"Why can't you just leave?! Leave me to my suffering!" She struggled fiercely and Victor finally unhanded for fear she might still attempt to do him harm.

"If you're suffering, seek solstice at the bottom of a bottle or in the company of friends—not at the end of the blade!" He chided her, reaching down to pick up her dagger. It was a simple spellblade; silver with translucent blue streak along the fuller, unwieldly for physical combat, but sharp enough to cut. He set the wine bottle safely against the foot of the bed as he examined it closely.

"You know nothing of my burden, Victor, so who are you to tell me what to do?"

"Then tell me!" He tossed the blade aside and grabbed her by the arms, shaking her in the process, "Tell me! Explain it!"

Thelise pushed him away and slapped him in the face. He withdrew, regaining a modicum of sense. "Blind fool!" she spat at him, a brief stream of tears cutting across her cheek, "the fate of your people does not rest upon your shoulders. All that you have to risk in the match is your life. You know nothing of what burdens me, nothing!"

He rubbed his cheek until the stinging sensation subsided, but only paid mind to her words. "There are few things more immense than death, Thelise. You were chosen to spare your kind such a fate; to risk your life in a pit rather than throw away thousands on the field of battle. Even if you fail, you should be relieved that the bloodshed will end there. In fact, you should be thanked."

"Thank me? Are you—you are simply—urgh, the naïvety of men is baffling!" She said, shuddering with anger. "You, among all others, should know that there are fates far worse than death, warlock! I think nothing of what misfortune might befall me, only of... only of what will become of my people. Victor, they wish to... assimilate us."

The lack of expression on his face did not seem to satisfy her, and so she explained herself further. "It would incredibly demeaning to join forces with the Horde: the same creatures we've battled so fiercely against in times past—and I'd much rather taste death than take up arms against good friends, but... to do what they're asking... to feed on demonic magic, to willingly taint oneself—it's a hideous thought, an abhorrent notion, abominable, unspeakable...!"

"Vereesa Windrunner will still be Vereesa Windrunner, as all of you will still be yourselves, should such a thing come to pass."

"That I cannot say," she answered woefully, "To drink of demon's blood, to even sate yourself with their dark essence has an effect upon your mind and body unlike any other. After feeding even once, I doubt we will ever be the same... to ourselves, or to anyone else."

"You would be as different to me as the sunrise is to the sunset—no matter the hue of your eyes or the path you take, you would still be Thelise." Victor said, drawing closer to her. "No less beautiful... and shining as brightly as ever."

Thelise met his gaze in full, and for a long moment, lingered there with him. Her tears had dried, but the sapphire pools from which they had spilt bore faint traces of red. Together they melded into the deep violet of dawn, and just before Victor thought he might see light rise within, the lady broke away.

"But look at us," she laughed and sat herself upon the bed, "talking as if we've already lost!"

Victor chuckled hollowly. It was not a lack of hope that weighed on his mind, but another sensation distracting him. "We won't." He picked up the bottle and twisted the cork free from the top. He didn't have glasses on hand, but he offered it to the high elf none-the-less. She paused, perhaps thinking better of it, but accepted the drink regardless.

"To... the coming victory," Thelise remarked before taking a hearty swig of the wine. She grimaced and nearly spat it up, but Victor was pleased to see her avail. She was obviously unaccustomed to the taste of alcohol. He retrieved the bottle and sat beside her to make a toast of his own.

"To unlikely allies," he said, smiling at her. He drank what he could sustain (which was not much, at his level of sobriety) and sat staring blankly at the bottle.

"Is something the matter?"

"Something you said," he replied. "You're wrong." Thelise tilted her head in silent interest, and he continued. "The fate of your people doesn't rest on your shoulders alone. It is on mine, as well."

There was the briefest glimpse of surprise, perhaps revelation, but it was washed away with a smile. She reached down to take the wine, but Victor took her hand instead. He grasped her gently and before confusion could take hold, he looked into her eyes again. "Thelise, let me share the burden."

Boldly he closed the gap between them, pressing his lips to hers. Every breath of his was laden with the scent of alcohol, but she gave no resistance to his advance. Her small, soft mouth opened and accepted him as if she were waiting for this moment from the moment he walked in.

Thelise sighed as the kiss ended; the sound of her breathing ignited a fire within him—one that he was desperate to quench. One of her hands had found their way to his thigh, and though Victor may have thought differently of it with a clearer mind, his intoxication only fueled the flame inside him. He rose up and kissed her again, and she was eager to receive him. The elf retreated to her spot but he pressed further, leaning over her as he risked touching his tongue to the inside of her lip. It was a dangerous move against a woman so proper, but what little restraint he had was passing with every second. She did not stop him... rather she bit gently at his lower lip.

The pain sent Victor into a fury that he had not experienced in years. He pushed her down against the bed, letting her feel the weight of his chest as he assailed her neck. Once again, the elf had been dressed conservatively, but even as he savored her creamy skin and nipped along her collarbone, he imagined he would enjoy tearing the gown apart. His conscience vainly advised him to slow down, but its voice was growing more and more distant. Nothing could keep him from her, and he wanted her to know it, as well.

She was remarkably passive, but Victor refused to yield to concern. He took in her scent—sweet and seductive, like forbidden fruit—and drew his kisses to the front of her neck. Her breathing quickened but she gave no sign of protest, and so he traveled down to her bosom. Though Thelise was not as ample as other women he had encountered, his excitement did not ebb. He brought his lips to her clothed chest, but did not press down. The fabric was thin and allowed him to search by touch, and search he did. It took only seconds for him to find his target, perked and now prominently showing through the gown. He observed her as he kissed gently, and she watched him in awe and horrified delight. Victor had nearly forgotten how much fun 'good girls' could be.

She blushed with embarrassment, bringing color to her otherwise milky complexion. He toyed with her nipple, wrapping it tightly between his lips, kissing, pulling, and teasing until Thelise gasped with ecstasy. He grabbed at her chest without shame, and squeezed... slowly, firmly. The first grasp was always the most satisfying, and the elf cooed in approval, her body rising into his touch, her hands sliding down his back, one of them inside his shirt. Victor need only touch his lip to her other breast for her to press his head down unto it. He opened his mouth and took her nipple inside, licking and sucking against the cloth. She moaned, unabashed, as he assailed her chest, but there were other places he desired to trespass, other sights he longed to see, and he would curse himself if she would come to her senses now, when all he had discovered was the taste of mooncloth.

With both hands at her chest, he rose to a sitting position and groped her with impunity, softly pinching her nipples between his fingers before finally releasing her breasts. Thelise panted and he sincerely believed that this may all be new territory for her. Again, his conscience called for him to slow his actions, and he had decided he would defer to it... for now. He pulled her legs up over his knees and bent low to kiss them. He worked his way up her gown but made certain that his progress was glacial... his kisses deliberate, but gentle. She writhed, not out of pleasure, but from nervousness. Undeterred, Victor raised the fringe of her gown higher, and kissed higher still, and continued until the first scar had been unveiled upon her thigh. Thelise looked at him, blushing still, but without a word to part her lips.

With his eyes locked upon hers, he kissed it... and upon discovering another, he kissed that one too. Her shame was great but he did not care about what harm she wrought upon her body. Her comfort was conductive to his ends and he would stop at nothing to achieve them. The scars varied in size—some long, some small, but he caught one, after another, after another, until at last her gown could go no higher. He was well aware of what remained and he eyed her hungrily.

"Victor..." she said in weak warning.

His finite knowledge of women was nearing its end. She would either want what was next or she wouldn't, and her call to him was little indication of what was truly stirring inside of her. Fortunately, his own desires were easier to decipher and far more fun to obey. Victor lifted the closest thigh and spread her legs around him. Thelise hurried to push back her gown, but it was all too late. He had seen her. He did not show it on his face, but his mind reeled with the thought of her hairless, flushed mound and its glistening, pink lips. For a moment he thought to tantalize her more by kissing along her other thigh; feigning ignorance might ease her into revealing more, but the tightness in his pants was becoming painful. He shamelessly adjusted himself, but his bulge pressed hard toward his waistline, and somehow became even more difficult to conceal.

Victor caught her watching him and knew his primal urges could not be danced around any longer. He pulled up her dress and climbed up against her body, forcing his crotch upon her. Thelise raised her head to watch in shock, but as his confined prick was held fast to her bare and waiting womanhood, she collapsed back to the bed and cried out in aching. Her hair broke out of its ties. She shook her platinum blonde locks out and allowed them to unfurl over the covers. Victor pulled away only to thrust his self against her once more, as if to instruct her where it belonged and what was expected of her.

Thelise exhaled in shallow ecstasy as he rocked against her comparatively frail body. He supported himself with one hand and took the other to the back of her waist, pulling her into him with every push of his own. His pants soaked up any moisture that might have escaped her body, but her fragrance filled the air—faintly, but enough to fuel his deviance. Victor looked up to her face, taking in the blush of her cheeks, the parting of her lips, and the distant fear in her eyes. His pace slowed to show his respect for their agreement, but he refused to stop and console her. Having never experienced the pleasure of a high elven woman, he would never forgive himself for letting a glimmer of doubt ruin this moment.

He kissed her again, fiercely and selfishly, tugging gently at her lip as his hands shifted over to her breasts. The movement was subtle, and he did not take hold just yet—they kissed and kissed, their tongues met and melted together in a dance within her mouth—then his. He took her advance as a cue that she was ready for more, and squeezed softly at her chest. Her bust was notably smaller than the last woman he had touched, but also firmer, perkier, and in a sense, sexier. There was innocence about them, and Victor was desperate to defile it.

His hands explored her as thoroughly as her gown would permit, but even the mooncloth could not keep him from discovering her erect nipples. They acted as a fuse to an explosive within him, and Thelise's words would ignite it.

"Take them... Please!"

His mind became little more than a blank slate amidst the wilderness, and instinct mingled and danced with his dark intention. Actions were all that mattered now; there was no room for feeling, no room for remorse or thought, only sexual gratification, only release. He reached up to the delicate embroideries and ripped the gown clean from her chest, revealing the woman's bare flesh. The sight of her petite boobs bouncing free from his forceful gesture was nothing short of invigorating to the man— her rosy pink areolas stood at attention. She gasped in terrible awe, but would soon forget the loss of her garments; Victor's mouth latched to her nipple like it had always belonged there.

Squirming with delight, Thelise attempted to resist but his hands had found themselves at her forearms. He sucked softly at her breast, drawing little circles with his tongue and again with his lip. She struggled as if it was all too fast for her, but she voiced no objection to his wiles. She would have to keep up, because Victor would not be stopped. He switched to the next, noting her quick arousal and a moan of pleasure—they seemed much more sensitive than others from before, and it aroused him, too. He looked up at her and she let a smile slip as his tongue refused to leave her flesh. She was catching up to his pace, but the question of how long yet remained.

Victor's tongue tired and he bore his teeth, tugging gently at her nipple as his hands, previously concealed beneath him, tore away more of her gown. The slate of his mind was beginning to return to purpose, and strayed from natural impulse to become etched with his dark desire. All of it had to come off. He wanted her naked, vulnerable, ripe for the taking. A few final threads resisted him, but he relieved her breasts to attack them with his teeth. Success. Thelise lay before him in purity and nakedness, his saliva glistening upon her chest as precursor to his wine-addled plans.

He hurried to unfasten his pants, but Thelise rose to stop him, shamefully concealing her nudity.

Though words hadn't escaped him for some time now, she hushed him for his frantic breathing. It seemed he could not act fast enough for his fantasies to come to fruition.

"Shh... Shh... slow down... slow down."

It was a desperate plea on Thelise's part, but her voice was as steady as the forest and as calming as the wind through its leaves. She touched a hand into his chest and allowed her body to become half-exposed from beneath her tattered nightgown, and from the vague look of understanding in Victor's eyes, it seemed she had regained a semblance of control over his actions—and none too soon. The beast inside him had come to a halt, as if mesmerized by a dazzling display in the sky, and yet the darkness within continued to creep. She had only seconds to get to the point, or he would get to his. Thelise reached down into his pants, which, if it had been any more possible, excited him and satisfied his dark hunger all the more. Alas, she merely grasped his shirt and pulled it out from within, helping it up over his stomach and chest, revealing the small patch of hair at its center and yet another trail leading down into his nether region. The elf shook away the remains of her clothing, looking very different in the buff and with her hair down. The devil in Victor's head wanted nothing more than to grab onto her white locks as he bent her over. There was no return from where they had trespassed, and as her nimble fingers worked at the buttons to his pants, he knew that she, too, saw the futility in denial. Thelise could only pray to assuage his lust and wrath—she WILL pray, he decided.




The Feud Ch. 01



A brutal longing ascended from within him. No longer did he seek to preserve her holy glow or elfen 'mystique'. In his mind, the last vestige of her purity had just been tossed aside, a ravaged heap of mooncloth at the side of the bed. He would not wait, he would not relent. As Victor Naught became consumed in the shadow within his mind, his hardened cock was freed from its confines, laying erect in front of the object of his desire, his willing victim, the unwitting Thelise. He was uncommonly large and content with its length, but he knew she would have nothing with which to compare it to—"How cute," he thought to himself.

The man reached up to caress her cheek and reach into her hair. She smiled at him for only a few seconds, searching once again for that kind understanding in his eyes, but she quickly learned the Victor she knew was gone. He took a firm grasp of the hair around her pointed ear and pulled her face down to his stiffened prick. She turned her head in surprise and was prodded at the corner of her mouth, the sap at the tip of his thick member smearing against her other cheek. Her uncertainty was apparent, but his will was not to be questioned—she would do as was expected.

Thelise opened her mouth and received him, inexperienced and unaware of how much to withdraw her teeth. Every tinge of pain he felt he returned to her, shaking her head by the roots of her hair until she understood without need for words. "Shape up," he thought, "Make it good." She withdrew her lips for every thrust of his member and it softened the experience greatly. The cool moisture of her sweet little mouth was as any other woman he had experienced, but the look in her eyes as he pushed closer and closer to the her throat was otherworldly. Hope and doubt spiraled within each glowing, blue iris—ebbing hope that he would treat her with dignity, and growing doubt that she could deny him of his demands. He would have her until all was lost within them, he would fuck her delicate mouth and her virgin throat until she learned to do it properly.

Thelise began to use her tongue to illicit some satisfaction, but he received little. This may have been her first time with a man, or at least with a man in her mouth, but he was determined to make it a memorable experience for the both of them. Victor placed his hands at the back of her head as he watched the high elf, in all her unblemished beauty and hallowed integrity, suck cock just like so many women before her. She bobbed her head gingerly and looked up at him with a full mouth, her eyes alight with the growing enthusiasm of a keen student. Her mounting excitement pleased him, but did little to satiate. His fingers crept up behind her pointed ears, and after she delivered another exuberant glance, he pushed slowly into her throat.

"Breathe," a very human voice said. He did not know where it had come from, but it was certainly his own. The devil inside of him would have given her no such advice, but forgave the trespass to the purpose of his wild pleasure. Thelise inhaled deeply before Victor pushed his member into her throat—the gag came on, and he pulled away to test her. Like a noblewoman, she did not heave her dinner upon him, and like a slut, she opened her mouth again, ready to try once more. A touch of humanity goes a long way.

He pushed again, faster this time, just as deep, and she took him inside. The tightness in the back of her throat was surreal, but the look of this high elf priestess swallowing his cock was too priceless to be forgotten. The man retracted a bit and thrusted again—again—fucking her throat with short pushes, until he once again thought she would throw up. Thelise did not, but the tears and the unprecedented color in her face told him that she wouldn't stand for any more of this particular activity. He could accept that... she would beg for it, later.

With his cock properly soaked in her saliva, other amusements came to mind. He pushed her down; "Relax," he said, to the anger in her face. He knew his jeering would only stir her more, but she would forget his transgressions soon and write them off as mere lover's play. Victor descended the bed and placed his hands on the cusp of her thighs, pushing her legs into the air and spreading them apart for his viewing pleasure. Taking in the sight of her flushed, untarnished vulva, he could hardly hear her cries of protest.

"No... no... you prom—"

She cried out as Victor dropped down and feasted on her engorged lips, kissing and sucking at the virgin priestess with jubilee. He could sense her appall in her thighs; she tried hard to squeeze them shut and deny him access, but not nearly as hard as one might expect from a woman of the Holy Light. Her hands attempted to stop him, but he pushed them away violently enough that she quickly feared to try again. He was enjoying this far too much—fixated on the slightly sour tang of her secretions. He gnawed toothlessly at her flesh, his lips accidentally caressing her clit and causing Thelise to buck her hips at his mouth. He pulled away and his eyes returned to her face; the color remained in her cheeks, but she burned with arousal now more than anger.   After a period of mutual silence, he lowered himself to the spot again and teased it with his tongue. Around and around, the tip touched her sweet spot only incidentally... and then a flick. Her convulsion was not so great this time, but Victor braced himself none-the-less. Thelise sighed hotly instead, and he wondered whether the sensation was new to her. He receded once more and met her gaze. He would have her beg for it, beg to experiment, beg for him to do what she had seemingly never tried to do for herself.

Victor waited... like a prowling hunter in the foliage, he waited, still as shadow and his eyes gleaming like the moon. They had come too far now, together.

"Well...?"

The nerve of this woman, the ingratitude! He smirked and replied, "What?"

"You're... you're just going to stop?"

"Oh, you want me to continue?" Victor suppressed a small laugh in the interest of keeping her desire at its peak.

"... Yes."

"Where are your manners?" He took his hand to her crotch and began to rub in a circular motion, not seizing her clit so readily, but moistening his fingers well. "Yes, what?"

"Yes... please."

He pushed a two of his fingers into Thelise, penetrating her two digits deep the very instant her words reached his ears. She was much warmer below than she was at the mouth, and equally wet, but she recoiled quickly, pushing her heels into the bed and her body away from him. Victor held her fast at the waist and faced her fully, her expression of fearful disapproval meeting his mask of playful innocence. With a shaky voice, she started to call his name, and he hushed her.

"Even demons must honor their contracts..." he said, lowering his mouth to her vulva. Her body tensed in hesitation, but his lips only caressed hers, "... but they will bend them to near-breaking." His tongue dropped low along her slit and ascended slowly, leaving his salivary lubricant in its wake, allowing his fingers to slip in with even more ease than the first time. Victor's eyes did not leave Thelise's face, and he watched as she staved off the pleasure of this new sensation.

He plunged inside her gently, shallowly, fingering her in slow, careful rhythm with the up-and-down movements of his tongue. Around and around, he traced the tip on the outside of her lips, occasionally dipping inside to taste of her own essence. The heady aroma wrapped itself around him and coaxed him into further hedonism. The elf panted loudly as he began to curve his fingers inside of her, and it drew more of her intoxicating nectar from within. He devoured her with unholy abandon—she sighed and gasped, and unable to maintain his tease any longer, he sprung upon her clitoris. He had almost thought that she had expelled all the breath from her lungs when she cried out like a born-again whore.

His tongue spun slowly around the tender ball of flesh; the meager teasing was enough to make the high elf squeal in suffering and delight. He coaxed her further with his fingers, pumping them into her with a steady, unwavering rhythm as his tongue worked inches above. Her own pleasure was tainting her state of mind, and from this lewd corruption, Victor grew voracious. His movements became more direct; he pushed his fingers deeper and licked at her clit without caution or reproach. Thelise's reactions were nothing short of exciting. She bucked her hips again—harder, but Victor knew she would grow accustomed to this new and sinful sensation, or if not, too weary to fight it.

His tongue and his hands escalated until they had doubled their efforts on her body, sensing she was close to something tremendous. Her breathing intensified, her moans were loud and heartfelt, and even after she ascended one plateau after another, Victor labored with dark purpose. Harder, he fingered the priestess, and faster, he lapped at her; and in spite of the tinge of tired pain in the back of his mouth or upon his wrists, he pushed onward toward a climax.

Her body began to stiffen and grow tight, breaking only for bursts of movement, from her craning neck down to her curling toes. Even her energetic sounds transformed into whimpering pants, each a different note to the rhythm Victor composed upon her body. Thelise reached for him; whether to grasp his hair or to rip him away, he was not certain. His had honed his focus on upon every lash and flick of his tongue, and soon began to suck upon her exposed and swollen clit, and any ounce of strength or resistance she had was dissipating, breath-by-breath.

The elf's eyes shot open and shined with an otherworldly haze, as if the Holy Light itself had manifested above her naked, writhing body. She grabbed for anything she could brace herself with; her breasts, her sheets, her doubt, which by now was as tangible as the empty space within her clawing hands. Her head pushed into the mattress, her shoulders and back ascended from the bed, and with them her spine was carried, as well, and with that, her petite, rounded ass—and still Victor clung to her. Her body levitated into the air like a feather in the wind, and her eyes glowed as bright as the stars.

"O thus dor fulo su'thus do rini, fallah nor... " Holy scripture flowed from her lips, and with the sounds of lapping and probing between her thighs, it shaped a song of perfect blasphemy. Frozen on her final words like a profound epiphany, her body grew deathly rigid— until finally, she screamed—a long and meek wailing of body and soul that crowned her orgasm with guilty pleasure. She collapsed to the bed, bouncing against the mattress, entirely expended, and at last Victor relented and relaxed.

His mouth had worked to exhaustion, and though Thelise lay sprawled out for the taking, observing her smooth skin and supple breasts reminded him that he, too, sought satisfaction. She looked down at him, her eyes having returned to their natural blue and her skin left a rosy hue. In her state of ultimate pleasure, she uttered the unimaginable.

"Make use of me, Victor."

The words came as if she had read his autobiography before it had been finished, as if she had known him all his life, as if the episode had somehow connected her to his base desires. Deep inside his subconscious he knew he didn't want her heart; he wanted to use her body, again-and-again, through-and-through, and Thelise saw this in him now. To hear her say it was an alien experience, and he suspected her mind was not entirely her own, but her voice rang true enough and Victor was in no position to deny their validity.

"Use me," she sighed.

He stepped up off the bed and finished disrobing at last, allowing his trousers and undergarments to fall, allowing his buoyant prick to bob in front of her. In spite of the priestess' bold words, she was no sexual savant; Victor took her by the wrists and guided her to her knees upon the floor in front of him. Quickly reaching down, he took the wine bottle in hand and turned it upon his cock, drenching it in alcohol before feeding her with it. Thelise sucked his pulsing member clean and then coated it once again with her tongue.

"More?" he asked rhetorically, withdrawing himself from her.

He poured more wine on himself and fed her again; with greater eagerness, she lapped it off of him, sucking so hard at his cock that she could not even taste the precum leaking from its tip. Victor pried himself from her lips and poured again.

"More?" His tone sounded more like a statement than a question, and yet Thelise replied:

"More..."

The high elf took it in before he could even move, her hands reaching up to his hips and fingers wrapping against his buttocks to brace him as she devoured his member. Her tongue danced along the underside of his shaft as she pulled him out, and twisted around his head before she took it back in. After a few plunges into her mouth, she gave it one last deep suck and he felt the familiar tightness of the back of her throat. She no longer bared the visage of purity and piousness—she had become as much of a monster as him. Perhaps it was the orgasm, the wine, his musk, but Thelise had developed an appetite for cock, and it was visibly difficult for her to relent.

"More!" She demanded, having removed him again almost without his noticing.

He opened his eyes to look down upon what he had created; a starving harlot, a worthless tramp, craving his cock, begging for his satisfaction. He poured the wine on his dick again but could not act fast enough for her liking. It splashed against the base of his cock and the remains poured all over her face. The scent of alcohol only intensified their high, and Thelise—or the carnal creature who had taken her place—gripped at the base of him, worked hard for her reward. She was learning what he liked and happily delivered it, her eyes opening up to meet his with the same darkness that he had shared with her only shortly before. She embraced the evil within him, as he, suddenly feeling victim in her sensual quest for release, came to understand her more as well.

Every plunge into her mouth begged for his release. Thelise allowed her remaining hand to drop from his side, squeezing and fondling her own breasts, caressing her nipples before letting it fall lower. She moaned onto his throbbing prick, as if to announce what was transpiring between her legs and out of sight. Victor was staggered and astonished—she was not the woman he had seduced, but someone else entirely. Her appearance and shape was mostly the same, though her hair was freed and dampened with wine, and the bashful color in her cheeks alluded to her intoxication—yet her eyes beamed with wild desire that Thelise could not possibly contain. It was not her. It couldn't be. He could let go.

Victor grunted as the elf quickened her pace. "Take it you filthy slut," he growled, grabbing her hair. It wasn't her mouth anymore—not in his mind. No. It was an orifice—a hole for him to use and get off into. That's all it was, all she was, nothing more.

"It's okay," he thought, "It's not her."

He let his colors show—he let them shine. "Suck it harder! Harder, you worthless fuck-toy! It's all you're good for!" He looked down at her, taking her head in both of his hands, "All you're good for..."

Thelise opened her eyes again to lock upon his, and it was at the cusp of his orgasm that he was struck with an epiphany—she was no whore, no heathen, no monster—she was a woman, and nothing more. Victor felt his balls cling tightly to the body and the distinct sensation of fluid climbing to the tip of his cock. This was what she was meant for—her entire life had lead to this moment, and within his gaze, this message was clear.

Her eyes widened with sobriety. She pulled away and shook out of Victor's grip, but it was too late. With a low, guttural groan, he climaxed. His cock, pulsing and almost red, burst at its peak, shooting jets of white upon Thelise. It splashed off of her cheek and was caught in her hair as she turned at the final moment. Hot streams of cum strung themselves upon her platinum white locks, hanging intact like thick web of pure sex. Her sudden retreat bemused Victor, but he grew rapidly sedated by the release of his semen. The darkness within him was finally at rest, and Thelise, who was likely more of a mess than she had been since birth, sat perfectly still.

Victor began to take notice of an uncomfortable tension in the air, but in his alcohol-fueled exhaustion, he could do nothing but collapse upon the bed. He attempted to form words, to restore the mask of charm, care and concern, but he could only babble and mumble. Even a younger, more romantic man would find great difficulty in explaining himself now that the passion had subsided. Victor, in part tiredness and part cowardice, turned his head away from her, but was forced to listen as Thelise stepped away. She crossed the room twice, and a heavy clamor at the door signified her exit. She did not return for the rest of the night.

TO BE CONTINUED



The Feud Ch. 02



Author's notes: This chapter is considerably longer than the last story, and features more than one scene. Don't be afraid to take a break and come back, even mid-scene, because the last one gets a little... wild. You also needn't be shy about giving me your honest commentary! I'm not certain this is my best work, and it can get a tad confusing, but I wouldn't submit it if I didn't think you'd all enjoy it. :) 

Thoughts should be in quotations and italicized, but if you see strings of italicized words and it sounds like the narrator is talking, that's the main character's mind; I just forgot to quotation-mark it.

-----

Anadia Springfire had at last found a place of perfect harmony. At the breast of Eversong Woods, she had planted herself upon a small hump of grass-laden earth that sat immobile atop the forked river. The water was almost shallow enough for her to have walked through, but she didn't mind the swim, nor did she mind the cool breeze against her skin as the sun rose steadily over the treetops. The blood elf's eyes remained closed as she took in all the sounds of nature; the singing birds and the stirring frogs, the creaking boughs overhead, and the fanning leaves, the trickling waters and the blades of grass rippling against the wind. Every sound reached her long ears at once and was absorbed into her mind without penetrating its solitude. She felt as if she had become one with everything and nothing.

Meditation was a necessity if she wanted to overcome her magical addiction—even temporarily. The past few years had been nothing short of tumultuous for her people; from the evisceration of their capital, Silvermoon, to the destruction of the Sunwell, their all-too-relied-upon source of magic. In their desperation and longing, they turned to demonic sources to satisfy their thirst, and as sweet and succulent as the fel energy was, the blood elves succumbed to the corruption that naturally followed. Their eyes were tinted to a bright, emerald green, and while that would be an attractive transformation in any other circumstance, among the Horde it marred them as weak and impure. The Sin'dorei were treated with disgust for this at their introduction, but worked their way up to grudging approval among some of their allies. Fortunately for Anadia, Errog Balevein was one among them.

The fragile tranquility in her mind cracked under each heavy footstep, and gave way to the clinking and clanking of the orc's plate armor. Sighing in frustration, she lifted her chin and let her dark red hair fall back from her shoulders unto her back. With a slow tilt of her head, she peered over at the sallow-faced Errog; his skin dark and gritty with what many would assume to be soot if it weren't for his eyes, which glowed a deathly-pale blue. Anadia knew the pigment in his skin was merely an after-effect of his resurrection under the Lich King's control several years ago, and despite his liberation, he found it as difficult to return to his own kin as it was for them to accept him. She knew it troubled the orc, and pitied him privately.

Still, she found it increasingly difficult to mask her agitation. Meditation proved more difficult by the day, and though Anadia sought to deprive herself of even a taste of magic, she secretly longed for the moment of her relapse, no matter how calamitous it might be. Her lips pursed and her teeth clenched as she fought her urges; to feed her addiction and to lash out at her friend—in one order or another. The addiction of the blood elves was known to all, and while she knew well that she could not overcome it, she sought insight into the mind of her opponent—and alongside that, potential weakness. The only way the Sin'dorei, and the Horde, would take control of Dalaran was to extricate the Silver Covenant, and the best way to do that was to convert them. Unfortunately this monumental and delicate plan rested upon the shoulders of a young hunter and her orcish accomplice.

Though the blood elf was well into her 70s, she appeared as young as any other, and was, in fact, significantly younger than most of her kind. In spite of this, she had been awarded numerous commendations and stood among some of the more accomplished of her kind. While the Horde rarely yielded control to elves (let alone women), Anadia easily took on a commanding presence in the heat of battle. Her sharp, untiring eyes detected both the movements of her enemies as well as those of her comrades, and she had saved many lives on the field. Her quick thinking and quicker reactions earned her some respect among her peers, but Errog knew her stories only through second-hand accounts.

"I prefer the arena," he once told her, "On a battlefield, the satisfaction of taking a life is quickly lost with the next, and the next, and the next. In a pit, there is but you, your partner, and a pair of victims. The kill can be savored. It can be relished."

While Anadia had a fondness of battle, Errog held a passion for murder, and while the two ideas were seldom separate, she could not help but find herself perturbed at the delight he took in killing. She frequently forced the thought from her head, attempting to concern herself only with her continued survival; which the death knight's presence had always assured her. Errog bore no animosity toward her that she could detect; only ambivalence and stern words of wisdom, like an older brother she never had. Even with their precarious friendship, Anadia could not trust another man alive—or dead—with the task that she had been set upon.

Errog finally reached the water; clad in thick black plates that gave off an icy blue gleam in the light, he hauled a pair of massive chains on his shoulders that rustled across the grass. Anadia wondered how she had not detected them from further away—"could it be an effect of my withdrawal? ... No." She had come too far now, and success was just close enough to taste. With the match closing in upon her, discarding more than a week of meditation and fasting was not an option.

"I wasn't paying attention," she thought, "I was meditating. That's all."

Anadia allowed her eyes to fall to the waters, gazing into her reflection. She was rather fond of her appearance, and though vanity among elves was not unique to her, Anadia was more than comfortable with her full, vibrant red mane, her long, thin nose, which pointed down to her diamond-shaped lips, which seemed naturally flushed with color. I am perfect, she often thought to herself, but not today. Those same features seemed as nothing but a landscape surrounding twin calderas of boiling corruption; the fel green glow that emanated from her eyes told her and others of the desperation and weakness of her people... On brighter days, she held it as a sign of strength. 

The blood elves sought to survive, and did what was necessary to—without moral qualm or superstitious hokum, they drew from demonic essence, and did not succumb to the unquenchable rage and madness that the orcs once did, or the mutations of the draenei, but rather maintained their beauty and stability. Unfortunately, it was that same act of necessity that had resulted in the quandary she faced now. The Quel'dorei snootily held that sacrifice over their heads, setting a resonant example of "purity" in contrast to their path of corruption. Their very existence was a mockery, but without the Silver Covenant, the high elves would become a figment of history, leaving no contrast to behold—only one people, under one banner, measured by an equal standard. The future of Anadia's kind rested upon her shoulders, and the odds were not yet in her favor.

Errog approached closer, even going so far as to set his foot upon the edge of the water to send small ripples across the surface; as if he intended to break her trance. The effect did not make it far beyond its natural flow, but the splash made his intention clear. He was not to be ignored.

Anadia jerked her head at Errog in silent gesture, and he yanked at the chain in turn. A rustling came from over the knoll, and the slack in the iron links increased slowly. Two high elf men stepped into view, their features almost indistinguishable from their Sin'dorei cousins aside from their clear blue eyes. Great metallic clasps hung from their necks, and their shirts had been stripped away to reveal bruised and scraped torsos. Their wrists were bound behind their back, and while they were allowed to keep their pants, they were slashed and ripped in different areas, speaking of the fight they put up prior to capture. Based on the integrity of the orc's armor, it wasn't much of one. She looked at them askance, sighed, and rose to take a closer look.

Ascending to the balls of her feet, Anadia lifted her hands to sweep her hair off her shoulders and away from her full, bare breasts. Although entirely nude, her body betrayed no hint of embarrassment or arousal—the hunger and hate inside all-but-consumed her, and burned bright from her weary eyes. Though she used to get excited, even joyous at the sight of Errog's catches, they had proven so fruitless that she could hardly eke out a smile now. Anadia turned to them and dipped her toes into the river, descending into it one step at a time without thought or hesitation. Her facial expression divulged no evidence of the cold as her eyes began to bore into the men like a predator upon crippled prey. The waters reached their height at her petite hips, and as Anadia elevated from the river, one of them winced and looked away, as if certain death was imminent.

She suppressed a small laugh, knowing it to be true.

At last she set her feet upon the opposite shore, dirt clinging between her painted toes. Errog turned and stood beside her, his folded arms mirroring her nonchalance. Anadia knew that her body had no effect on the death knight; whether necrosis had reached his loins or the Lich King had ordered him castrated, she did not know, but between life and death, any interest in sex, women, and romance had somehow been lost in the translation. She approached the first high elf, who seemed to be much more afraid than the other, and kept his head to the side and his eyes shut. Anadia placed a hand on his chest and trailed her fingers down against his skin. Despite his cowardly display, she stopped to admire his form; though there wasn't very much to enjoy. 

He—like his comrade—was built like a teenage boy, and at first glance, he looked to be one. Though his blonde hair was full and well-kept, there wasn't a lock of hair upon his chest, and while that was typical of their kind, his shoulders lacked the broadness of a warrior, and his limbs lacked the tone of even a rogue. If he were anything more, it was likely he would have devised a magical means of escaping—"Or are you so frightened, little one?" She attempted to peer beyond his scraped face and into his eyes, his features softening as a uneasy calm set in. Her hand had crossed his flat stomach and crossed over his hip, toying along his belt line. His trembling ceased.

"I have little time for games," she said in a near-whisper. Anadia spoke to them in their common Thalassian tongue, and wanted the other to hear her as well, but couldn't risk passing eavesdroppers becoming hidden onlookers. Errog did not seem to mind or care about the language barrier. "You high elves possess a certain gift—or knowledge, if you will."

She paced over to the other high elf, a dark-haired lad who had his eyes glued to her body, but appeared even younger and more foolhardy than his friend. His injuries were worse, but clearly not everything was broken. Anadia eyed his crotch, which seemed to stir before her very eyes. "I needn't tease or touch this one, but if the other fails to crack..."

"What do you want from us?" the frightened elf hissed. "How rude," she thought as her assessment of her other prisoner was interrupted.

"The Quel'dorei people—your people—bear a secret; a secret that my people, admittedly, never cared to learn, but are now denied." Anadia's hand drifted away from the belt loops of his tattered pants, glided up over his abdomen, and settled upon the shackle around his neck. She attempted to lock eyes with the dark-haired elf, though it took several moments before he could meet her gaze with his own. She extended her hand and beckoned him over, and he was all too eager to oblige—though he did so with a limp.

"We know no secrets, harlot. We're only scouts—and—and they'll be looking for us! We'll be missed, and the forces stationed at Quel'lithien will—"

Errog burst out laughing. "Those dandies!?" He snorted and spat, "Who do you think lead me to you?" The high elf looked confused and angry as the orc babbled brashly. "I severed my share of heads—not easy taking prisoners when they keep tickling you with knives and dull arrows." Errog coughed out a ragged laugh. "I must accredit your people, you flee like fawns—fight like 'em too!"

Even the more aroused elf was beginning to lose his interest in Anadia, and Errog's heckling made her irate. She needed something from these men, and it didn't suit her to pander to mice. She cleared her throat loudly. Errog's jeering laughter was squelched. 

"Got one to tell me about you two before she bled out," he concluded quietly.

Anadia's relationship with the death knight was one of equal respect and stature, but a recent wager about the speed of their mounts had placed the orc in her debt. Errog was a poor gambler, but one who took dues seriously—all dues—and Anadia knew never to join those foolish and unfortunate enough to be indebted to him. The young woman had allowed to him to settle the score by capturing high elves, and provided some bloodshed was allowed, Errog enthusiastically complied.

"You do know secrets, child," she said, though neither of them was of discernible age. She placed a hand on the other elf, cooling his cheek with her caress, "And you will share them with me."

Anadia's hands dropped and cupped each man at the groin. She could feel the arousal in one but the other would not have it... or was hung like a squirrel. Instinctively, she coaxed them in a slow, circular motion feeling her own body grow warmer, if only slightly. The sun cut through the treetops and gleamed in her eyes, but she kept her gaze upon her prisoners. "You have so much to gain..."

Positioning their members between her thumbs and forefingers, her massage became a firm, intentional stroke. One man merely clenched his teeth and faced away, but the other had begun breathing more shallowly, allowing his eyes to wander onto her body and the back and forth motion of her wrists.

"What do you want from us?" he exhaled, already at his physical peak.

"To the point... I like that..." Anadia grasped the top of their pants and pulled them open, reaching inside to grab a full hold of their pricks. The difference was night and day; one as hard as rock but with flesh like flower petals, helmed with a dew-laden tip... and the other limp, somewhat sweaty, but seemingly devoid of life. She maintained her efforts. "I want the two of you... to teach me the secrets of the Quel'dorei." One groaned, and the other grunted as she groped them. "Teach me your meditations... Show me."

"They're not ours to teach!"

"Nonsense!" she squeezed the smaller elf in her hands, testicles and all. If he would not respond to pleasure, he would respond to pain—he groaned as well, now, but in agony. Anadia was not entirely sure his friend noticed or cared. "The urge to feed is impossible to resist without proper meditation. The Sunwell may be restored, but you would not have survived the long years without it unless you had special knowledge." She turned to face her willing participant, bringing her lips close to his and licking them, "I need it," she said.

He opened his mouth, piquing her hope that he would say something worth listening to, but he only emitted soft yelps at the increased velocity of her hands. Slinging thousands upon thousands of arrows over the years had not only granted Anadia stamina, but agility as well. She began to focus on the man, keeping her fingers wrapped tightly on the balls of the other, but leaning up to kiss at his friend's neck and lick the lobe of his pointed ear.

"Tell me, please..." she said in a pathetic begging tone that was anything but serious, but still highly suggestive.

"Don't Zerik!" the other shouted over his sighs of satisfaction. Anadia squeezed his balls again, and twisted. He cried out low and in pain, dropping to his knees. Errog stepped forward, kneeing the fallen elf beneath the jaw, knocking him back onto the ground. With another step, the death knight pulled the man to his feet at the neck-shackle and drew his sword, holding it to his throat. The edge was close and sharp enough to shave the peachfuzz from his chin. His friend, Zerik, noticed this time, but Anadia would not have him too distracted.

"Tell me... Help me, and no more blood need be shed. Your friend will be released," she said, nodding slowly at Errog. Though she spoke in a language he could not understand, her soft tone and pointed facial expression told him all he needed to know. She watched as he relaxed his blade some and Zerik began to relax as well.

His friend spat blood and tooth onto the ground; "Zerik, dunt!"

"Unnh—ah..." Anadia heard and felt on her ear. Her hand grew warm and sticky-wet. 

"So soon?"

She dropped the softening Zerik like a soiled rag, but withdrew her hand from his body with some intrigue. His sappy sperm dripped down into her palm, drawing lines between each finger. He continued to breathe in exasperation, but Anadia took a long, careful look into his deep, aquatic blue eyes before pushing her cum-drenched fingers into her mouth, two fingers and one digit at a time. She let her tongue slide up and down and in-between them, as if she needed to further seduce the high elf, and ended by wiping the rapidly chilling remains upon her breast.

"Pure..." she said, "Not a trace of magic in his veins." Anadia removed her eyes from him and turned to Errog. He grinned, his long, jagged orc teeth pressing tightly against his upper lip.

"I forged the shackles myself from a saronite compound. Its highly resistant to magic—you might even call it... insulation."

She narrowed her eyes and shook her head, failing to understand, but then returned to question Zerik. "When was the last time you've fed, child?"

He sighed, but in spite of the compromising situation, he answered Anadia's question as if she were a friend. "Not for days, not since this... orc captured us."

"Interesting..."

She turned toward Errog and gave a slight nod at the blonde captive, but the orc was not altogether content with her merciful gesture. "Release him?" he snorted. "Why?" he questioned in his native tongue, "So he can warn the others, so he can call for reinforcements? And what will become of me the next time you require elfish secrets?" he said, hocking something thick and green into the river.

Anadia kept her temper in check, albeit barely. His defiance in the face of her enemies was intolerable. She stepped toward him fiercely and stabbed his chest with her forefinger.

"If there will be anyone to blame for preparedness or reinforcements from the Alliance, it will be you. You left survivors, you allowed stragglers to run free and regroup!" Though she spoke in another language, her dominance had to be made clear in the situation, or else no amount of sexual gratification would cause Zerik to divulge the guarded secrets of her people. Anadia was to be loved and feared. "But let us forego the bickering, Errog. I have plans for both of these vermin.




The Feud Ch. 02



"Let him go," Anadia said as clearly as she could in the brutish language.

With a heated grunt, the orc clenched his teeth and undid the elf's bindings and neck-shackle, nearly breaking them in his frustration. The high elf did not take the time to second-guess his place in Eversong—he rose to his feet and dashed south at full speed. Anadia quickly addressed the leftovers. 

"Take this one and leash him outside of my quarters. Be sure that he is fed and clothed, but nothing more."

Errog laughed condescendingly, "People will talk, Anadia, getting down and dirty with elf—err, high elf scum. And your sister—" 

Anadia shot him a look of pointed appall. Though there was a hint of color on her cheeks, her eyes told him not to further breach the subject. Errog took up the chain again and yanked it to reestablish a doubtlessly satisfying sense of power over the prisoner, who quickly awakened from his post-orgasmic haze.

"I have no intent of sleeping with him. I found this pair to be most... disappointing."

With a single handed gesture, Anadia waved the two off and out of sight. Errog dragged his half-empty, chained contraption along the ground in a sulky manner, pulling Zerik along as if he were already dead. She thought to the disinterested blonde, no doubt racing through Eversong, with tiring lungs, a parched mount, and on an empty stomach. She grimaced. The blood elf had had her fill of meditation for the day, but was beginning to grow hungry.

"And that reminds me."

Anadia whistled sharply into the treetops, and the shrill sound echoed into the woods, deflecting and reverberating from every bough and branch as if they were stone. Immediately, a pair of pointed, gleaming, yellow eyes opened within pinkish-violet leaves just above her. Its shape was lost within the foliage, but its presence was indisputable. Even with the asinine allegiances of the Quel'dorei and the protests from Anadia's trusted friend, she upheld her half of the bargain. It was only honorable to keep her word. 

"And it's only fair that his friend be given a head start."

She pointed in the direction in which he ran, and with a furious but brief rustling from above, the beast was gone.

Errog embraced her, and Anadia was forced to succumb to the suffocating sensation of death wrapping around her lithe, but athletic frame and squeezing her mercilessly. As her body was yanked through the air by unholy energy, Errog readied his glowing runesword, preparing to bat her like a leather ball to be knocked out of Falcon Wing Square. Shopkeepers and bystanders stood and watched as the hunter was forced into flight, and though she was poised to land feet-first on the pavement, Anadia bent her legs in mid-air and rolled under his swing, leaving a few severed strands of hair and a trap beneath the orc's feet.

The metallic ring detonated immediately at his heavy footsteps, and a thick cloud of ice exploded from its center, locking Errog in place and coating the ground in a viscous layer of cool, unnatural snow. Though it appeared thin, the muscle-bound death knight was having as much difficulty trudging out of it as one would expect from trying to escape from three feet of the real thing. Anadia saw it necessary to put even more distance between the two of them, leaping backward through the air and readying her bow. Focusing upon her opponent, she volleyed arrow after arrow at him, and though a few were deflected by his plate, not all of her arrows were so easily ignored.

An explosive shot connected with Errog's shoulder with a bright, fiery crash, followed by lingering smoke and another explosion at the opposite side of his stomach. He did not billow in pain, guard himself, or lose footing—only pounded his chest with rage as he willed himself through the pain and stepped out of the false ice. Anadia continued to volley arrows at the death knight, but with a thrust of his arm into the air, bones emerged from his armor and began spiraling around him in mid air, held aloft by some dark force. While the effect was indisputably flashy, it did more than put on a show.

Clink! – Whether by happenstance or magical autonomy, a bone deflected an arrow. Clunk! – Another shot knocked away.

The hunter was irritated, but far from deterred—her tricks were limited, but she would have to brute force her way through his defenses while she could afford the opportunity. Another explosive arrow was launched through the air at Errog's thigh, bursting instantly and leaving the scent of smoldering orc flesh, but he did not care. His veins pulsed and pumped with blood; hardly visible at her distance, but the blood elf's sharpened eyes detected the subtler movements of his body—the sight disgusted her, like a series of large clots breaking loose and traveling through his bloodstream. Though any other victim would be crippled at this point, his powers of self-healing were as effective as they were unsettling.

Anadia growled in frustration and steeled herself as Errog began to escape the ice slick. It was going to take everything in her arsenal to bring him down, but with grit teeth and a nose beginning to bleed, she was prepared to do just that. She planned each attack, expending her focus on one final assault.

"A poison arrow, a black arrow, another explosive arrow, arcane, arcane!"

Errog only seemed to embolden as he deflected more of the arrows, both magically and with his runeblade—and finally he was free of his impairment. He roared with triumph and blood rage as he rushed the elf without hesitation.

"Firemane, now!"

A red and gold figure leapt from a nearby rooftop and down onto the orc's back. The giant lynx latched onto his neck and shoulder, gnawing at Errog's right ear. It was beyond Anadia's imagination, but she watched as he both boiled and froze at once—his body turning firmly rigid but his face contorting with rage. Before she could knock another arrow upon her bow, the end of his hilt connected with the lynx's face, followed by a single armed heave of the beast directly at Anadia. The pet collided with her at full force, knocking and pinning her to the ground with the creature atop her.

It began to stir for a moment, but a smoking skull of purple and green smashed into its chest, telling it to yield—the hunter felt the force of the attack through Firemane's body, feeling an ounce of sympathy for the cat.

A steely clamor rang out in front of her as Errog threw down his sword. "This duel is over!"

He spat blood and mucus upon the pavement and kept his fists balled and apart from his sides. "We had an agreement not to call for minions! Of all people I—"

Anadia forced herself up from beneath her lynx, rolling the heavy animal off of her chest. It kept its head and tail low in verbal shame as it skulked over to her side. "What's the point of this, anyway?! In the arena, Firemane will be there! Our opponents will—"

"Our opponents will dispatch him quickly, and you'll be forced to fend for yourself with arrow and dagger—unless you intend to make yourself and myself vulnerable by reviving the mangy beast!"

Anadia's eyes widened with a gasp. She readied another arrow and fired it at the orc's shoulder—which he received without hesitation, but as the dark blood leaked out of his wound, he relinquished all control, charging at her. In a split moment, she realized that she had overreacted to a petty insult, but before she could muster a semblance of an apology, the blood elf was pinned high against the wall by her neck.

"YOU FORGET YOURSELF, ELF!"

"Let go of me!" she squirmed and wheezed, feeling her throat close. She clawed at his hands and kicked his chest in futility.

"You must FEED, Anadia! This game has gone on long enough—your skills are beginning to suffer, your discipline is all but forgotten! You dare strike ME outside of a duel!?"

"I must—I must—see into the minds of my..."

"You are becoming more of a high elf every day, woman!" Errog roared at her, saliva spattered against her face and armor. "And I will not stand and watch as you starve yourself any longer!"

With that, he reached up just beneath the other hand, and though it would appear to any other that he would tear at her shirt, he ripped another garment from her instead—the neck shackle the high elves were forcefully adorned with earlier. The sudden snapping force sent her head downward, but shame kept it there. Anadia had worn it to prevent any accidental relapse, and in spite of her best efforts to conceal it from its creator, it was as visible beneath her scarf as the effects of her withdrawal were upon her face. Her skin was growing paler, her cheeks more pallid, and her eyes brighter, but with bags beneath them.

"I told you to give this pursuit up a week ago, and you did not listen! Tell me, what have the prisoners," Errog spat, "what have their teachings yielded you!?"

Anadia gave him nothing but a slightly pouted lip and an angry look. She had learned nothing.

"Zerik is dead; turned wretched—attacked two civilians and smashed by an arcane guardian. Don't think that just because it's Silvermoon that I don't care to follow word-of-mouth, and an attack like that within city limits?! Hah, word spread FAST!"

He dropped her finally, Anadia's face having turned from red to near purple. She had always thought that Errog wasn't entirely aware of his own strength; or at least of the lack-thereof in others. She gasped desperately, rubbing her neck to ease the pain as Errog continued to shadow her unsympathetically.

"I'm taking this shackle from you—meditate, feed, fuck: I don't care what you do to relieve yourself but get the old Anadia Springfire back. I may not value "life" as I did once, but I accept my unlife, and I would see my debts repaid, and others repaid to me. You will NOT jeopardize that, wench."

Errog stomped off, leaving Anadia to catch her breath and collect her thoughts, but she could only listen as he departed. Her mind was blank aside from the clinking and clanging of his armor, though the vaguely cheerful rhythm was broken by the sound of a logy hitting the cobblestone path.

She wanted to enjoy the sensation of magic filling her body again, but she had come so far now and frankly, she was frightened to do it. Anadia had never gone this long without a fix and was beginning to doubt that if she allowed herself even a taste that she would stop at that. That was how all wretched were formed—abstinence and overindulgence. Her mind was beginning to slip as well. How could she ignore the rules of the duel, how could she hurt her only friend like that?

"I can't relapse now... but... I need help. I can't discover the proper meditations on my own."

She did not realize she was crying, but Firemane nuzzled into her jawline and licked a tear from the top of her cheek. Anadia pet the cat's head, his bright yellow eyes only distracting her momentarily as she returned his affection. Without Errog to assist her, there was only one other she could turn to now—and she was standing just feet away. Her appearance was as ghostly as it was timely, but the black and gold robes that bade ill for many, bore great hope for Anadia. She could only utter one word:

"Sister."

 



Staci Springfire was a name much too bright and bubbly for a woman so solemn and grim. A twin sister to Anadia, they were close rivals for many years of their life until the fateful morning, almost thirty years ago, when news had arrived of their parent's death. The trauma was the catalyst that turned the fractures and splinters of their sisterly bond to fissures and faults as they placed blame on one-another for their shared loss. While Anadia found a means of coping by pursuing her interest in archery and strengthening her bond with nature, Staci took a much darker path. In her youth, she was pious to an irritating degree, but in her grief and loss, the twin steered into the shadow. "It was as if she never left the funeral," Anadia thought time and time again. Staci draped herself in black even to this day, though her hair was dyed a light blonde to set herself apart further from her sister.

While they were estranged from one another in every sense of the word, Staci clearly thought Anadia pathetic enough to approach her. It hadn't been the first time in thirty years they had reconnected, and like before, Anadia assumed it would be to mock her, but the priestess merely extended a hand—and she took it. Though the sudden act of pity aroused suspicion, Anadia was in greater need of a friend than ever before, and her day took a pleasant turn from that moment on. A stroll through Eversong Woods elicited a great release of emotions from the hunter, who poured her woes and worries onto her twin. Staci was not unaware of her plight, as the signs of her efforts were apparent on Anadia's face, but hers remained a porcelain mask. The two women made their way toward the city.

The pearly walls and gold & crimson spires of Silvermoon ascended over the forest and cast a shadow upon the sisters. The sight of lush gardens and masterfully crafted statues of dancing maidens greeted them as they approached the entrance. Fresh flowers gave off a scent that reminded Anadia of simpler times—of friendships, of first experiences, summer love, and the tenuous bond she once shared with Staci. She took her hand almost reflexively, and though they exchanged a furtive glance, Staci somehow allowed it.

Aside from a few words and some gestures of understanding, Staci had done little but listen until this point, but as they sidestepped the overbearing and outdated statue of their fallen prince, Kael'thas, the priestess broke the rising tension by offering her a drink. "A few glasses will serve you well," she said in her usual reserved and polite tone. From within her robes, she withdrew a small, heavily jeweled purse (that Anadia thought was a tad gaudy) and unclasped the gold hooks. "My treat," she said with a gentle wink.

Anadia took a step back and folded her arms, becoming even more suspicious.

Staci tilted her head in response, playing dumb. Her blonde locks did not fool her sister in the least; Anadia knew she always had an ulterior motive to her actions.

"What's the occasion?" she asked with a hint of aggression. Anadia was aware she was inviting an argument, but was similarly aware that Staci enjoyed playing politics. Her sister wouldn't dare risk a conflict in public, and her sudden arrival was likely provoked by Anadia's antics and experiments with the high elves—not to mention the blood Zerik had shed in his rampage across Silvermoon.

Staci hesitated, clearly uncertain of how to handle the situation. 

Anadia began tapping her foot against the dusty red sidewalk, knowing it would irritate her all the more. It didn't matter to her if the entire Walk of Elders would hear them fight—she demanded an answer. 

"... We'll talk at the Wayfarer's Rest." Staci attempted to take her sister's hand, but she refused. "Please, Anadia, I wouldn't arrive out of the blue if it wasn't to your benefit as well."

"I see it in your eyes—you're keeping something from me! You... I can't believe I could be so foolish to have I told you everything that I did!" Anadia's voice dropped to a snake-like whisper. "What will the Sunreavers think of me when they discover I've been pursuing the teachings of the Quel'dorei?"

Staci folded her arms, a rare smile curling upon her lips. Anadia hated that smile. "You're right... What will they think?"

She froze. "... You wouldn't dare."

"Oh, for you? I would." Staci said, nodding softly. "But," she added before Anadia dare pounce at her, "... a drink or two might persuade me. The pleasure of your company and a few shared words is all I ask, sister."

The hunter narrowed her eyes further. She knew there was a greater agenda at hand, and reluctantly agreed, looking away. Staci concealed her purse again with a laugh. 

"And you'll be paying."



Though it took a bottle of wine to loosen her tongue, Staci began to profess her intentions, but all Anadia heard were half-truths. 

"The last thing I want to see is my own sister in shackles or in a prison cell," Staci said, "I've been searching for you since the rumors began; I want to help you." She placed a hand on her lap, and lifted the other into the air to call for another bottle. There were few other guests in the Silvermoon City Inn— and why would there be? Businesses in the city seemed to have things backwards. The Wayfarer's Rest had an excellent bar, but served no alcohol, while the Inn had a fair selection of spirits, but hardly any place to sit with a guest. The pinot noir arrived quickly none-the-less, and the twins were appreciative.

Anadia scoffed for a number of reasons, knowing that Staci cared more for her image and the credibility of her name than a relative's well-being, but was buzzed enough to play along. 

"How can you help me? The duel is less than three-days-time, and... my thirst is beginning to overcome me. The changes were subtle at first; I'd be a little snippier than usual, a little less focused, but now... my hearing's begun to go, my sight is fading—"

"Don't be so melodramatic."

"I am NOT!" Anadia said, slamming her fist into the table. Staci's eyes were left wide and she hesitated to drink from her glass. The hunter breathed slowly and through her nose, exhaling with equal care. "You saw what happened today, didn't you?"

"... Yes," she replied, "But I also heard what he said before you shot him. You love Firemane; you would have fired upon anyone who dared talk about him that way."

"But it wasn't just anyone... it was Errog. He's my partner, my comrade, my friend!"

Staci pushed her nearly full glass away and rose from her chair. Placing her hands upon Anadia's shoulders, she administered a gentle massage to her sister, attempting to ease her through actions, rather than with words of little worth. It was working.

Another glass later, Anadia began to yield to her sister's opinions. "It's probably just the pressure—the stress. That's what's happening. It's deteriorating my body; I can't sleep more than five hours a night, my appetite is waning, I get cold sweats and..."

"It's just the pressure," Staci whispered down the slope of her ear, massaging deeper.

Another drink passed between the both of them, and they moved from the dinner table to a nearby couch, as the heady, flavorful smoke from a nearby hookah began to settle into Anadia's mind. The Inn was peacefully dim, with translucent purple drapes and crystalline blue lights that shimmered through them like stars amongst clouds. Her surroundings, in tandem with the wine in her system, put her in a state of ease she hadn't felt in weeks. She rested her head onto a pillow. Staci climbed up just behind her and settled into a half-spoon position, with an arm crossed over her sister's shoulder. Anadia began to question why the meditative practices she learned weren't working, and though an abundance of stress was the easy explanation to her problems, Staci offered a more compelling one to her sister. 

"The Quel'dorei are our kin in shape and tongue only," she said. "Their methods are their own, and they will not work for us. We have been altered by our addiction, Anadia. We are anew."

Her words were well-reasoned and, deep down, Anadia knew them to be true, but it did not ease her disappointment any—or improve the situation. She was still woefully behind on training, and if relapse didn't end her, her opponents in the arena would. She reached down to the floor to pick up her drink and finished it sloppily; some of the wine trickling from her lips. She turned in annoyance, but before she could wipe it from her cheek, she felt another sensation upon the area. Staci was atop her—cleaning her. Small, rose-soft kisses dotted her skin, and Anadia felt her cheek flush.




The Feud Ch. 02



Her body had grown warm, and only then did she take notice of the effects the alcohol, the lighting, and the affection was having upon her. To receive this attention from her twin sister wasn't an entirely new experience to her—in fact, they explored one-another frequently in earlier years, and even played together on reunions not unlike this one. Still, even with such a vainly beautiful woman resting upon Anadia, leaving delicate kisses at her neck, her mind remained burdened.

"I fear I... I am beyond a point of no return," she said in a hush, "if I feed my addiction... I will binge—I will turn, and no one—nothing can stop me."

Staci paused, resting her head upon her sister's shoulder and nuzzling into the curve of her neck. "The only way is to ease yourself back into your old regimen. Small doses." 

There was a certain twist to her words that told her she had something in mind, and before Anadia could ask more, Staci took her hand and led her up off of the couch—and out of the inn.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"Oh, don't worry about that..." Staci replied, turning back to her to take both of Anadia's hands into her own, "I'll take good care of you. Just follow me."

The Sin'dorei people had always revered the Sun, but at the heart of their capital sat Murder Row, a seam of Silvermoon named for its high rate of crime and shady denizens. Thick, silk drapes stretched and crossed over the glorified back alley, as if to shamefully conceal its evil from the heavens above. The hunter knew she had had too much to drink as her eyes fell to Staci's well-rounded backside and long legs. She was not as muscular as herself, but still a sight to behold, even to her twin.

Staci took a sudden turn through a veiled passage and down a spiraled ramp, speaking vaguely about the importance of forming connections and making friends in high and low places. Anadia followed along all too willingly, holding onto the golden railing of the stepless staircase, as the hue around them changed from a dim magenta to a vibrant green. "The Sanctum," Staci had called it, bore the resemblances of a club, a lounge, and dark altar all at once. A large emerald sphere levitated at the room's center, with several floating crystals frozen in orbit around the object. Anadia recognized them well; the fel energy they gave off was unmistakable.

"No," she said, "No, I won't feed—if I do this, I'll lose control. I can't control it—it's like... climaxing. Once you start, you don't stop yourself, you just want to ride it longer and—"

"Sh-sh-sh-shh..." Staci hushed, putting a finger to her sister's lips, before directing her across the room. The Sanctum was hardly what one would consider to be a place of privacy, but the peculiar crowd inside of it didn't seem to mind or notice their presence. In fact, the twins were among the most modestly dressed there. Numerous blood elf, orc, and troll men sat and lay in half-dress, with shirts off, open robes, and less, pacified either by the demonic energies flowing from the various crystals or the "affections" of their leather-clad succubi. Among them all, however, Staci and Anadia were the only mortal women present.

On any other occasion, Anadia would have insisted on leaving this place; but in her inebriation and desperation, the intoxicating glow of the demonic crystals seemed to beckon her further into the room. Doubt wafted from her mind the more she stared into the radiant green; this was exactly where she wanted to be. Staci guided her to a round canopy bed nearby and sat her down, straddling her lap and slowly breaking her line of sight. Anadia looked up at her twin, her facial features etched in darkness, but her eyes gleaming with vivacious color. The fel taint that gave them their emerald hue drew her in and enraptured her, giving life to something within that Anadia had never felt before.

The two women laid their hands upon one-another, Staci working her nimble fingers at every link and strap binding Anadia's armor to her body, but Anadia hadn't the patience. She worked to unfasten the hidden buttons and clasps that kept her sister's garments intact, yet grew frustrated with her own clumsiness and began to pull them apart.

It struck her as odd that Staci didn't mind her clothes being damaged, and the more she hurried to undress her, the less the situation felt right. She sighed and rubbed her own eyes before driving her fingertips back through her hair, "What am I doing? Why am I doing this...?"

"Because you need to."

"Do I...?"

Anadia was silenced with a kiss from her sister, a thought and sensation that should have repulsed her, but instead put her in a state of hedonistic ease. Something so sweet, so simple was just what she needed to feel, and as Staci parted her lips with her own, she grew calmer and quieter. Though the two had indulged themselves with such taboo pleasures in the past, it had been almost a decade since their last encounter, and so much had changed in her that it was almost a new experience. Staci broke this trance when she released a familiar breath into Anadia's ear, and she opened her eyes to see that Staci had almost entirely disrobed herself, revealing a simple black bra and short skirt to the hunter. She filled out her top well, and though what was within was nothing she hadn't seen before, Staci had a haughty air about her that Anadia was eager to affect with her earthy touch.

Not seeing clearly, but familiar with her sister's clothing preferences, she reached up and unclasped Staci's bra from the front before pulling the undergarment back and the straps clean off of her shoulders. The priestess gasped with shock and mock-disapproval, covering herself. Anadia cackled likely, calling a modicum of attention to the pair. Staci let a smile show, and her fingers parted to reveal a glimpse of her body.

"You never did care much for foreplay..."

Anadia laughed, "This is foreplay." She reached up and squeezed at the priestess' chest, taking in the weight and size as she cupped and kneaded them—suddenly the aggressor on this occasion, but being the slightly older and typically dominant one between the two. Staci attempted to resist her power play, but failed as the redhead rolled her pink nipples between her thumbs and forefingers. She faltered audibly, having full but very sensitive boobs, and Anadia took it upon herself to strike in her sister's moment of weakness.

Staci let out short, pitched moan. "N-no!" she cried vainly as Anadia sat up from beneath her and took a nipple into her mouth, lashing at it with her tongue, intending to show her sister who was in control, as well as how much she needed this. Though the blonde's lips formed a sound of protest, her hips told her otherwise. She gave a subtle grind against Anadia's own—not enough to make significant contact, but a very clear signal as far as the hunter was concerned. She could not bother to divert her attention to it now, though; the feeling of Staci's nipple in her mouth (while mindlessly palming the other) was all too satisfying, and added to her already deep sense of comfort. Her sister seemed to notice this, and ceased her resistance, placing a hand at the back of Anadia's neck and another down her back, unlatching more of her armor.

Anadia could feel inexplicable weight falling from her body, having grown used to bearing her mail armor almost everywhere she went, and she found the sensation to be freeing. Beneath her gear she was better toned and a bit more tanned than Staci, but their bodies were otherwise indistinguishable from one-another. She hardly noticed the sound of her gear being tossed aside as she released Staci's nipple and kissed at her cleavage, enveloping herself in the sweet, crisp scent of expensive perfume, her hands still groping incessantly.

Anadia felt fingers resting gently upon her shoulders—then a fierce push that sent her down into the bed. Staci drifted higher on her body, and it was only then that it occurred to the hunter that the upper-half of her own body was exposed as well. Staci paid little mind to her sister's wants and desires, however, as she repaid no favors to her breasts and instead opted to pin her down at each wrist. Anadia suppressed a laugh and opted not to throw her off, knowing that it would only result in a more dangerous reprisal. She may not have had a taste for foreplay, but she had always valued strategy.

The blonde began to grind upon Anadia's waist and stomach, the mini-skirt that was once hidden beneath her robes now hiking up with every slow, back-and-forth motion. Gradually it drew back to reveal a pair of matching black lingerie, and Anadia wondered whether she had planned their heated evening. Of course she didn't mind one way or the other, but was receiving little from Staci's grinding aside from the subtle dampness that was forming just below her navel.

Her sister looked down upon her and bit her lip, pushing her crotch harder against Anadia's body as she basked in her position of power. Though it amused the hunter at first, she was beginning to feel insulted, as a common dog might when another would make this same motion upon its backside—she was not to be subjugated or humiliated. Not by her.

Staci began to slow down, letting her head and golden locks fall back and her eyes close as she rocked herself to what sounded like a distant precursor to orgasm. Anadia would not even allow her that much. As the blonde groaned loudly, her twin maneuvered her arms free and turned the tables upon her, grabbing Staci at the elbows and pushing her off. 

They were drawing more of attention to themselves now, as two half-naked, wrestling blood elf women would be expected to, but Anadia was oblivious. Her entanglement with Staci had absorbed all of her attention—even away from her panging hunger for magic. Staci growled and scowled at her for interrupting her fun, but was easily subdued with a fevered (if out-of-place) kiss. Anadia's lips locked with hers, feeling the soft flesh part for just a moment, and piercing between them with her tongue. Staci met it with hers, but was futile in any further resistance as her sister carefully explored her mouth.

Anadia felt the priestess ease some and partially withdrew from the kiss to remove the skirt and panties from her body, giving the men in the room a full view of her naked body. The hunter broke away in full, allowing some of her aggression to subside as she undid her belt and allowed her scaled leggings to fall away from her and off of the bed, unclasping and kicking away her boots as well. Though Anadia's chestpiece secured her enough to forego a bra, beneath the leggings she wore a dark red thong. Within moments, that too was gone.

This is happening, Anadia thought. Here, at the fringe of the Sanctum. Now, in front of this audience. She wondered if it was the addiction that had elicited this change of attitude in her; things that made her roll her eyes or even wretch, things that she would never do suddenly seemed so exciting, so enticing. Staci wiped all of the concerns from her mind with a curling of her finger. Anadia sneered and climbed atop her, ascending the length of her sister's naked body.

"I don't know why you bother fighting anymore... You know how this always ends."

Staci narrowed her eyes, but not her smile. "There's no thrill in taming a beast that won't put up a—mmmff."

Anadia interrupted Staci's crude impression in an equally crude and unequivocally lewd manner, taking her twin sister by the hair and pulling her mouth directly onto her sweet spot. Her muffled disapproval ceased as the hunter tightened her grip on her blonde locks and she began to submit to her whim. Anadia felt herself grin. 

"Even after all these years, some things never change."

For being the child of nature, she was very well-trimmed. While her addiction had consumed her thoughts in recent weeks, her only means of coping was to adhere to her usual routines and hope for slow reprieve or sudden break-through. Anadia was well-accustomed to and almost always prepared for this activity. In spite of having enjoyed a number of generous gentleman callers and handsome high elf prisoners, a woman's lips delivered a unique sensation. The first contact seemed to send sparks up her spine that cascaded down to her fingertips, and a much greater one followed as Staci's tongue began to probe and glide along the outer edges of her slit, tracing along her lips and finding their way inward.

It was pleasurable, but did not sate the fire inside Anadia, who sought revenge for Staci's display. She reached down and massaged her fingertips into Staci's scalp as she moved toward her clit, Anadia's hands circling outward until the priestess' opened her eyes at the arbitrary affection. They shared a loving gaze—until Anadia gripped her hair again and forced herself upon her twin sister's mouth. The hunter emitted a grunt of pure emotional satisfaction, grinding herself into Staci's face. The crowd was enjoying it as well.

"C'mon, lap it up!"

The sporadic sound of chuckling and clapping arose around them. The attention drove Anadia wild. She humped Staci's eager mouth, hardly giving her the chance to do anything advanced, but enjoying it none-the-less. Her warm, sappy saliva soon took the place of her juices, further reducing the friction against her lips.

"You call yourself a priestess? Huh?"

She gave off a muffled noise that could have either been a moan or words.

"Then cleanse me!" Anadia continued, mocking her sister. A few heartier laughs came from around her, and she turned to flash a smile at their audience. It all that was needed to catch a glimpse of what was going on around her; many of the warlocks had brandished their members and were stroking themselves openly. Her motions never stopped and Staci was keeping up nicely, but Anadia dared to turn to her other side, where she saw even more of the men, one or two of them relieving themselves with kneeled succubi, but keeping their eyes upon the feature presentation. A voice of reason in her head developed a term for this; an orgy. "I'm in the middle of an orgy. Am I really doing this?"

But the voice was quickly lost in ecstasy as Staci found and attacked her clit, lashing upon it with the full force of her tongue and suction from her lips. Anadia screamed in surprise and delight, nearing orgasm not only from being caught off-guard, but from being watched. "Fuck it," she thought, "Let 'em enjoy the show."

Growing bolder, she taunted her sister more, "C'mon, lick it clean! You're an embarrassment to the Light."

Staci didn't let the words go unpunished, and seemed desperate to keep up. Anadia felt bated breath upon her mound, and a finger enter into her body—a sign that her sister was getting tired, and wanted her to climax soon.

The hunter would not allow her the satisfaction. Not yet.

"Yeah, you're no priestess. You're just a slut, aren't you?"

Her sister's only answer was in action; she pushed in another finger and began to thrust in and out of her, not slowly, but rapidly—right away. Anadia pondered if she was angry, but was in too much pleasure to care. She tightened herself around Staci's hand, enjoying the sensation of her knuckles rubbing into her and her tongue drawing roses upon her clit, jolting her with every flick. There was little holding off, now, but she was determined to endure and enjoy.

"Aren't you?!" she roared, feeling herself plateau at the cusp of an all-too-soon climax.

Staci moaned out an obedient "uh-huh" through parted lips, but without letting her tongue leave Anadia's body. The satisfaction of seeing her pompous sister admit to such a thing, even with all of her success, was enough to send the hunter over the edge. Sweat glistened all over her body, but she did not care. Her knees had long since locked, but she did not want to move. Her gorgeous chest heaved upward in a final display for the warlocks around her, and Anadia howled out in orgasmic triumph.

The pillars of Azeroth itself seemed to rumble, as if the Makers were among the crowd and took it upon themselves to break into applause. A fantastic haze permeated the room and clouded her senses, but the reality was that the Sanctum had filled with applause and jubilation. She really was enjoying this—as much as any victory in the battlefield, as much as she knew would enjoy winning within the arena. She came down at last, both figuratively and literally settling beside Staci. 

The priestess did not rest. Whether it was Anadia's humiliating words or her own arousal that was driving her up from the bed, no one but her could say, but she was quick to move into position. Anadia looked on, noting the rosy hue in her sister's cheeks, the dazed (and almost ditsy) manner in which her nearly raw, reddened mouth hung open, forming an expression befitting one who had just orally delivered an orgasm. Anadia's eyes drifted down to the swollen lips that protruded ever so slightly from her flushed, hairless mound. Though she at first thought of how her sister must have ached for satisfaction, she came to chuckle at her shaved body, which was no doubt to spare Staci the embarrassment of someone finding out that she was not, in fact, a blonde.

Anadia began to sober up—even as Staci lowered her slit down and directly upon her own, she began to take note of her surroundings and the situation. She felt her leg lift and rest further aside to make room for her twin's display of tribadism, but she realized that that was just what it was. A display.

She was being watched, gawked at, masturbated to, naked and helpless and with a thirst for magic that was still unquenched. She felt her expression melt from one of half-lit delight to disturbed shame. The only thing that kept her afloat were Staci's weighty gyrations that brushed over her clit, and though her regret would soon pull her into an abyss of tears, her sister's company and actions were doing an excellent job of slowing the fall. Anadia shut her eyes in an attempt to lose herself, but each upward motion Staci made acted like jumper cables upon her body, and she was forced to watch. 

Staci's sex-teased hair danced with each movement, her sweat-beaded breasts rising and falling, her flat but toneless abs, her taut but strained thighs, all moving in unison to a beat only she could hear. Anadia began to feel something she hadn't in years. It was when she, too, opened her eyes, that the frigid world around her seemed to crumble away into a stream of consciousness. 

The priestess' long brows furrowed with concern; she was always an intuitive thinker, and could read Anadia as well as any piece of scripture. After a few more slow, steady thrusts of her hips (the last followed by a heartfelt moan), Staci adjusted herself and fell forward into Anadia's chest, kissing between them but stopping to speak.

"Something the matter...?" she whispered, before taking a nipple into her mouth. Their humping continued, but with less gusto. The men hardly seemed to take notice, but Anadia was making it a point not to take notice of them either.

She shook her head in response, lying. She knew Staci could see through it, and counted on the fact that she would. They shared a brief, but full kiss, lulling Anadia into an ease that was both natural and nostalgic at once. She looked into Staci's eyes and brushed her hair over her pointed ear, another hand finding its way onto the small of her back. A feeling started to well up inside of her.

"Do you trust me?" Staci asked with only the faintest hint of flirtatiousness. It did not faze Anadia that her nipple was being teased at that same moment. She realized—she remembered. She loved her sister.

Anadia's lips formed another smile at last, and she nodded with soft "Yes."




The Feud Ch. 03



Author's notes: Finally, after years in the making, Chapter 3 of our story. I've been on such a rough, long, crazy road in life, but this story finally finished. I'm editing the final chapter now, though I apologize if it's rough-hewn all the same. I'm really tired of working on this story, so tired that I don't want an editor, I just want it to be done... but I also wouldn't let myself do anything else until it was complete. I'm happy to say that it is, but considerably happier to share it with you. 

This chapter is considerably longer than the last, yet again. I'm guilty of some teasing scenes, some quickies, and not much... consent. I won't say any more, but there's quite a bit of plot and character development, so I apologize for the no-sex. It's going somewhere. 

Retcon: Anadia is now the younger between her and her twin sister, Staci. Apologies.  

***** 

Victor Naught had never before felt regret for his conquests, in battle or in the bedroom, but remorse now began to creep over him. Thelise had refused to speak to him since their encounter, and though they had dueled twice in the past two weeks, from even a mere professional perspective, this was despairingly insufficient. Had he been a less head-strong man—and perhaps a less arrogant one—he would have sought an audience with Ranger-General Windrunner, but Victor was certain he'd be able to manage without "calling for mommy," as he considered it. Thelise was not impenetrable, and he believed that all she would require was persistence and patience. 

Victor tailed her through-out the halls of the Violet Citadel, and when he could not, put gold in all the right hands so he was made aware of her secret haunts and approximate whereabouts. At the end of an extensive session of target practice, he slipped into one of the darker corridors leading toward her training chamber and waited. Tucking himself between a support beam and a stone bust of a wizard he did not care to identify, he pressed his back to the cool, stone wall and forced himself still. Light footsteps echoed down the hall and into the ovular chamber beyond. 

The satin slippers of Thelise Dor'elna softened the sound of her ladylike gait, but were as loud as trumpets in the stillness of this deep, solitary room. Victor was confident enough in his ploy that he'd catch her, and when he stepped out to block the path, their faces were only inches apart. Thelise stumbled back in shock, but he was determined to let his piercing gaze settle upon her as he set his hand upon the pillar, barring her way and waiting for her to explain herself. 

The luminous, aquatic blue of Thelise's eyes flashed for a moment in the light before falling to the floor and withdrawing into the darkness of her hood. From head-to-toe, the high elf priestess was dressed in white satin. Her robes, gloves, sash, and hood all shimmered with a miraculous light, even in the face of the black silhouette before her and the looming shadow it cast. She stood timidly, an anxious tremble coursing through her body. Only half of her cream complexion was visible beneath the gold-trimmed cowl, but even with the tension of the moment, Victor noted that she did not have the same glow that he remembered. Something was... off. 

Silence parted them. Thelise's nostrils flared with anger and, in her stalwart prowess, attempted to push past the warlock. Victor pushed against her, sending her back into place. 

"You've been avoiding me," he said at last. 

Thelise replied tersely. "I've been busy." 

"Too busy for our training sessions, I see." 

"There are other places to enhance one's skills than a sparring room." 

"Like a bedroom, perhaps," Victor responded, feeling his lip stretch into a smirk. 

"I'm not sure you can tell the difference between the two." 

Victor began to relax, moving his hand from the pillar and instead resting it upon his hip. "It would be advisable," he began, "if you held a similar interest in bonding with your partner as you do for books. Synergy is equally important, if not more-so." 

"I haven't the vaguest interest in "bonding" with a cur like you any longer." 

Thelise finally slipped beyond him, almost knocking over the wizard bust to do so. Victor's eyes remained fixed upon her, his voice grave. "Then your people are doomed, Thelise." 

"If you leave me to train in peace, they may not be," she said without looking back. Her hips swayed only slightly, echoing confidence in her words as she held a scroll in the air for the warlock. "Do you see this?" she asked buoyantly, "This is a test—and once I pass it, Lady Windrunner will release me from my contract." Victor narrowed his eyes in scrutiny. "That is to say, she'll void it and rewrite it to replace you." 

"What—why would she agree to that?!" 

Thelise paused and almost turned to scoff. "Are you so foolish as to think I would be able to hide what you've done to me?" 

The warlock's voice grew louder, his words fierce. "You'd throw your life away over a lovers' quarrel?" 

"Lovers? The only love you know, Victor Naught, is self-love. I am but another stepping stone on your path to fame, and I will be replacing you with someone who respects me as much as he respects the situation—someone who cares for the Quel'dorei with no less passion than I." 

The priestess stepped out into the training chamber, basking in the full—if artificial—light of the room. A faint, golden ring emanated from her hood, gleaming periodically now that Thelise was no longer smothered in Victor's shadow. Victor assumed that this was to be her healing garments, and it graced him with an idea. He set off after her. 

Refitting his dreadweave gloves higher upon his forearms and fastening them, Victor stepped out onto the ring, his presence equal parts defiance and defilement of the priest's private lesson. Thelise detected him immediately and turned to flash him a gaze of scalding incredulity. Feeding off of her brief attention, the warlock merely folded his arms and stood his ground. 

"How dare you!? The contract is already being rewritten. You are defunct, you are worthless!" 

"If I cannot convince you, Thelise, I have no choice but to convince the Ranger-General." 

"You're pathetic, have you not heard a word? I have won her favor, her ear!" 

"And I will win yours once more, foolhardy child." 

"... Do your sexual appetites know no bounds? This is a matter of life and death." 

"This isn't about hunger, this is about training you. Teaching you a lesson in humility." 

"If I wanted to train with scum, I'd be scrubbing a bathtub!" 

Victor was undeterred. He remained beside her, a silent, unmoving obelisk. 

"Get out!" Thelise shouted, "My test is beginning now!" She reached into her robe and withdrew a scroll wrapped in a purple ribbon. As quickly as the elf was able to open it, Victor muttered a dark incantation. Fel green energy enveloped his body briefly before dripping to the floor like spilt ink, expanding into a pool of circles and runes. Thelise unleashed the power of the scroll with a few simple words, and blue magical energy exploded from her form, sending the warlock flying out toward the entrance. 

Had his back been set toward a wall, Victor surely would have been knocked unconscious, but instead he tumbled backward through the hallway, scraping his head, neck and hurting his shoulders on the landing. He looked up to see several spectral figures around the room he had been expelled from— illusory elves locked in losing battle with orcs, and translucent images of wounded men laying upon the ground in wait of death. Thelise positioned herself directly in the room's center, holy light appearing in hands before she released it at different apparitions. One by one, fallen men began rising to their feet, only to vanish, whilst reinvigorated elves began to overcome the faux orcs. 

With a thought and a word, Victor willed himself to return to the place of his demonic portal. In less than an instant, he was engulfed in green flames and his body crackled and burned away, only to emerge into existence where the portal had been originally placed. Though all that was left of him in the hall was now a smoldering pile of ash, he felt no sensation other than the difference in air and the rush of new colors meeting his eyes. Now that he was beyond the barrier, he spared no word of warning for Thelise as he channeled his destructive energies and unleashed an immolate spell upon her, igniting her robes. 

His presence was noticed immediately. Flinging her arms into the air, a soft shell of light expanded from her hands, shielding her flesh from the flames, although not quenching them. Without mercy or hesitation, he unleashed volley after volley of snaking fire upon Thelise—one after another after another, weakening her shield and gradually dissipating it. He would pierce it soon, and she would be helpless. The priestess appeared to know this, and sought to prioritize the exercise over her own safety, evoking binding heals at illusions around the room in preparation for the searing pain she would soon feel. Victor's eyes lit up. It was apparent that her health came second to her pride, and he opted to punish her accordingly. 

The warlock called forth his succubus, beams of purple light encircling him and converging overhead. Within seconds his minion emerged from behind him, invisible to all others, but Victor felt her caress upon his back and shoulder as she passed his body and silently glided beyond. For the moment, he alone could bear witness to violet-horned demoness; her eyes alight with cerulean mischief, her flowing black hair, the scaled wings that extended from the tight leather bodice that held her breasts firmly to her chest and contained her taut and tempting form. Even the black string bikini that barely contained her full, tailed backside was not untypical to her kind, but a lack of original attire did not make succubi any less potent. Her hooves touched the ground without sound behind Thelise, and Victor turned his full attention to the apparitions once again. As far as he was concerned, the priestess would no longer be an issue. 

Thelise breathing had eased and she seemed to compose herself as the immolation spell was dying out, but Victor's aggression toward the fragile apparitions required response. She moved toward him to take the offensive, but as she raised a hand to do so, it was halted by a sharp crack at her arm. A thin, almost tentacle-like leather strap wrapped painfully tight around her wrist, as was made apparent by her startled shriek, and the whip's wielder yanked her away from its warlock master. Victor turned to look past the pair, targeting a distant apparition and sending a series of incinerate spells at it. Each wave of fire deliberately twisted around the high elf to meet Victor's target, while his succubus, Linevere, sank her claws into her hips. Thelise hissed in pain, which gave no pause to her soulless captor. 

She was too weak to conjure another shield before Linevere leaned in and bit at her neck. It was not one to draw blood or to cause pain, but a gentle bite, with which the succubus drew the priestess into full contact. The demoness let her tongue escape her lips, affirming her intent—Thelise jerked away, clearly repulsed, but she was playing directly into a trap. Their eyes met. 

Deep, deep into the sickeningly bright blue, Thelise was dragged under the succubus' spell, and as she drowned in her seductive gaze, she felt as if she could not breathe. A dreadful infatuation grew within the pit of her stomach like a budding rose—a sweet scent filled her nostrils, and Thelise forced herself to inhale, and with that, the rose came into full bloom. The aroma was as nothing that had ever touched her nostrils; a heady and exotic perfume, elusively clean like showered skin, but bittersweet like cranberry. Her blood ran hot, her mouth fell agape, and she felt her body grow damp with sweat and secretion alike. The chamber disappeared. Walls crumbled into dust and blew free in favor of jungle scenery. Wooden panels now supported her feet; soft, cool wind caressed her hair, and outside tiny raindrops trotted across the roof before tumbling down to the patio outside. Thelise wanted so badly to feel them on their body, if only to be touched. 

She willed herself forward, but it did not feel as if she made a step—rather, the world glided by. It wasn't right, but her consciousness seemed slow, sluggish, and every thought was delightfully delayed, drunk on the very rain that now began to wrap her skin in a blanket of cold affection. Arms, too, wrapped around her from behind—slender, feminine, with firm, manicured hands. Thelise shut her eyes playfully, guessing at who was behind them—perhaps a handsome adolescent, inexperienced, but full of heart and brimming with playful vigor, or a woman years older, at the peak of her adult beauty. 

'Yes,' the elf priestess decided, it was a farm girl, poor but hardworking, true to herself as she is to the livestock in her care. Thelise would have met her in the outskirts of Elwynn, and she would've begged her to show her a simpler world; a world where every blessing is met with humble gratitude, and not a word of prayer is spared for frivolities. Their journey together would lead them far and wide, and tonight, this simple, rain-swept lodge in Booty Bay. 

Gentle lips touched to the back of her shoulder and once more upon the nape of her neck, causing Thelise to exhale into starless night. The nameless woman moved patiently, her hands guided by experience, as if she had been with many women—strangely, this left Thelise feeling assured, feeling safe, in spite of her relative prudence. Hands found her shoulders, thumbs and fingers kneaded into her muscles, massaging the tension from the priestess. It felt all too good—too good to be real. 

It couldn't be real. 

Thelise attempted to break free from this world, but like a nightmare, she felt slowed by some dense, unseen force, a gravity that applied only to her. She didn't belong here, and worse, she knew she had something important to do, something of urgency... "If only I could remember..!" She naturally tried to shout, to scream, to cry out for lucidity or for someone to wake her, but what had come out was a wisp of her true voice. 

"Shhh, shhh..." said the farmhand, somehow able to hear her. She was led back into the cabin, but Thelise still tried to remember... they were going... to test someone? Who? Were they going to Ratchet for medical supplies? Was she swashbuckling her way out of Booty Bay? The massage intensified, and Thelise's mind waned against waves of falsified pleasure. The lines between feelings and fiction evaporated into enigmatic fog. 

She guarded herself in creeping guilt, and it became necessary, as the candle light surrounding her was not so dim as to hide her arousal. With little warning and less effort, the straps from her simple dress were removed from her shoulders, causing it to fall away from her chest, but fail to reveal it. Thelise did not know when or how her priestly robes were transformed into this image of what a far more youthful, far less accomplished elf might wear to the market, but the woman behind her was moving too quickly to allow the priestess question the experience. 

Thelise struggled to keep up—as she was so desperate to do—weaving details that her lover was too hasty to fill in for her. Her farmhand's name was Liv... Renee. Renee. Renee was as tall as her, and had auburn—no, blonde—no, long, brunette hair, and healthy, sun-kissed glow to her skin. She was older, but it only showed in faint traces around her smile and in her stone-gray eyes. The woman was an artist; her hands glided over Thelise's body as if she were ice. Every kiss, every squeeze, every hot breath served to sculpt her, and with each passing moment, Thelise melted. 

Together they moved to a tune played upon the rain-swept rooftops overhead. Feigning responsibility, Thelise pulled one of the dress straps back to her shoulder, but left the other to hanging loose, focusing instead on the rhythmic grind that was beginning against Renee's hips. She had danced with her Quel'dorei sisters in the past, but never with lascivious intent. The experience was no less exciting— the attention they drew from the young men was a powerful aphrodisiac. Alas, those days were short-lived, truncated by her holy calling, and yet she now found herself pushing out her backside into the wanton hands of a stranger, who responded by grabbing and gripping her excitedly. 

Terrible and intoxicating, the sensation was only vaguely familiar to her, but as Renee grew more aggressive, she could scarcely take the time to remember how. The farmhand spun around her and pushed Thelise further into the cabin, causing her to stumble onto a bed she didn't know existed. Her aged hands grew more lecherous, and Thelise fought to follow along—she was hungry, but her partner was ravenous. The elf wasn't altogether comfortable with the difference separating them, but as Renee's full lips kissed along her neck and nibbled down her collarbone, she could not yet say no. Renee kisses reached her stomach while a hand explored her thigh—Thelise wanted to slow down—the other hand glided toward her bare, B-cup breasts—she wanted to stop—lightly calloused thumbs teased at her exposed and tender nipples. Thelise bit her lip to stifle a moan, but Renee was likely too experienced to be deterred by the amateur strategy. 

This had gone too far too fast, and Thelise now wanted to push the woman off of her. Still, the farmhand pushed on, circling the high elf's nipples with her fingertips. Around and around they traveled, sending electricity through her victim's body, her with little flicks. No longer did she seem a fantasy—perhaps Thelise was a fantasy herself, and it was the dark-haired farmhand was the one who had conjured the elf out of her Sapphic desires. "No," she forced herself to say aloud, "no, this isn't real. None of this is real!" 

But a gasp for air drew in only the smell of wet wood. She felt another cool flicking at her other breast; the farmhand's mouth was fully upon her, drawing rings with unsavory enthusiasm. Every little lick, suck, and curious bite grew from nearly oversensitive pain to lightly ticklish pleasure. She relinquished, and looked down to her horror. No bronze-locked farmhand rested atop her, and there were no charming, gentle creases were upon her face, nor was there any earthly wisdom in the deathly blue eyes that now stared back at her. Claw-like hands shot up and shackled Thelise, pinning her to the bed. It was the succubus; violet-horns jutting from her wild raven hair, leathery-red tail swishing behind her, and a long, reptilian tongue lapping at the priestess' breast. 

The spell was breaking. 

As warm saliva dripped toward her sternum, the devil withdrew her tongue, full lips betraying a tightened grin that widened in jubilation. Thelise shook and pushed against the bed, but the succubus would not dismount her, and returned her efforts by making the bonds sting—her nails dug into the elf's flesh until blood shored at their tips. As Thelise looked at the sinister visage, she felt the numbing, comforting sensation reprise, but she strained to keep up the fight. What was overcoming her was far more dangerous than exhaustion - it was ease. Where the demoness' weight was at first an obstacle for her freedom, it began to spread over her, soothe her, like a heavy blanket in deep winter. Linevere's eyes had rekindled the illusion, and as Thelise was swallowed by her spell, even the succubus loosened her grip. Her smile faded, her features relaxed—and so did the elf. Thelise was too frightened to move, but it was modesty that hindered her actions, not circumstance. She found herself in a deep kiss with the grotesque creature, and as their lips locked upon one-another, she felt something she knew should not be: a connection to this soulless conjuration. It was beyond contemplation, shameful and curious. 




The Feud Ch. 03



Thelise let go of her fears, and as she released them into the false night, she found herself free to move once again. The creature was still an aggressor, but Thelise was submissive, and she received Linevere into her mouth, simultaneously using her own to dance and battle with her wicked guest. Mirroring her energy, the high elf reached down, pulling her robe up from her knees and higher still, beyond the midpoint of her thighs. She discarded her thoughts of repulsion like dead weight. Riding on the sown feelings of attraction for the felspawned woman, she touched herself for the succubus. Her legs spread further, allowing her cotton panties to dampen and the scent of her sex to fill what little space remained between them. 

It was a risk; Thelise had no idea what raw, invited sexual energy would do to a creature that was constantly starved for it, but she could not spend any longer suffocating against the demon's tongue. She knew that those who swim against the current only die exhausted. Her middle fingertip dripped down over her undergarments and slid back up against her lips, pushing against the hood of her clit before falling down again with another finger to accompany it. Every gentle exertion of pressure caused the succubus to retreat from the kiss. Linevere broke away at last and looked down. 

It was working. Thelise began masturbating, lifting her hips and using her spare, now freed, hand to pull aside her panties. The sight alone was more than enough to draw the demoness off of her— she reached for Thelise's panties and tore at them, an experience that wasn't entirely painless, but lest Linevere suspect resistance and pin her down again, she kept discomfort to herself. The priestess was fully exposed, vulnerable, and the succubus' inhuman tongue was made visible yet again. Linevere licked her own lips as she descended upon Thelise's womanhood, letting her tongue whip around and lash directly over the hood of her clit. 

Thelise shuddered and buckled. Another lick, another lash, as the succubus began to test the elf with her fingers. It was unprecedented generosity, as she had half-expected the monster to pierce her body with its talon-esque nails, and she was grateful for every moment of hesitation. It gave her just enough time to run her fingers through her new lover's jet black hair. The succubus' tongue grew increasingly active, moving, turning, spiraling much faster over her clit, taking Thelise to otherworldly heights. Thelise began to emit a quiet howl of ecstasy, but as she grasped tightly onto Linevere's horns, all that she felt was righteous conviction. 

A quick twist was all it took. 

Linevere crumpled to the ground, drained of life and beauty. Before her broken corpse stood Thelise, partially disrobed, panting heavily, her eyes narrowed in funneled fury and boring into Victor. He took little notice. Victor was beside himself with arousal, and the flames around the room served well to illuminate what was aching to escape his trousers. It was not merely the torches on the wall that shined on them now, but the fire from his destructive sorcery. It went without question that he had caused Thelise to fail the test, but it was the furthest thing from his mind now, and as Thelise lashed out at him with holy fire, it became obvious it was the furthest from hers. 

From beneath his own robes, a burst of searing white flame scalded him. Bright smoke pillared toward the ceiling. Victor lost his footing, but hid his pain, knowing himself to be tougher than this in any case— even when caught off-guard. Still, he was stopped, and the burning lingered for several long, tense moments of silence... Then he pressed forward. Thelise smote him with another wave of holy magic, and another, another, but Victor did not fight back, nor did he want to. Something about her had captured his attention, and his field of vision grew small. 

Thelise's hood had been removed, and her hair had been cut into asymmetric bob, but though these attributes were hardly unusual, it was something else that drew him in. Victor advanced through her assault, his armor singed and his exposed flesh seared by bursts of light energy. Soon he rounded upon the priestess, and before she readied another blast of holy fire, he grabbed the elf by the wrist and yanked her into him. 

"No, NO!" Thelise shouted, but she did not use any more of her spells to drive him away. "What happened to you, Thelise?" 

And all at once, she became still. Thelise did not hide, turn away, nor even direct her gaze to the ground with shame, but instead looked Victor dead in the face, eye-to-tearful eye, and stood silent and resolute for a time. 

"What happened?" she replied. "What happened... was that a brash, heartless... despicably cruel, and above all pathetic excuse for a man intruded upon my room some time ago! And when a lady—when a person was exposed and at their most vulnerable, instead of consoling them and taking his leave, this man took it upon himself to relieve himself upon her and leave her with this!" 

She opened her palm and with a word, a glowing bubble of light appeared in her palm. Holding it up to her face, Victor saw that her eyes, which had both once shimmered and glowed cerulean like small moonwells, were now a ghost of that. One was blue, the other partially green, both whelmed with tears that brimmed at the corners. Strangely, the discoloration appeared to be seeping in from the direction of her cheek, turquoise tendrils stretching around her iris like pollution. "You happened." 



"... I don't understand." 

"Of course you wouldn't! But fortunately, I haven't come down here to seek your understanding. I've—" 

"What is this?" he laughed. 

"It's not a joke! Look into my eyes, Victor, look into my eyes and see what you've done." 

Silence parted them as Victor fixed upon her visage. 

"You did this to me," she said quietly, with a voice that was both steady and fragile in that instant. "I am unclean, I am impure, I am tainted with your demonic corruption, and soon the world will bear witness to the fact. It is now painted upon me." 

With no interest in turning his robes into her tissues, Victor released her and stepped back. He had much to process, much to take in. 

"That can't be true, Thelise. How come I've—how is it no one else—I can't have been the first warlock to..." he said, denying it, and all the same trying to hide it. With every few words he touched her face, rubbed her cheek, even tried to pull her hood back up. 

"This is your fault," she said again, swiping his hands away, "The ideal my people are looking to me to uphold is now all for nothing, discarded in a cur's moment of lust," she wretched the last word out as if it were bile. "I should have crushed your balls the very instant I knew what you were about to do, but I trusted you to stop!" Thelise shoved Victor back. "Now this match is meaningless! If I succeed, they will say it's because I drew upon your fel energies! I will spend a life hated and outcasted by all of my kind!" 

"Hide it—" 

"NO! I don't want to wear this hood, and I never did. I wanted to serve as a pure example of the children of the sun, and the ideals we have upheld through millennia! To be a symbol of pride for all who are true to the Holy Light... and for my family!" she said, her voice cracking as tears broke free from her lashes. "My mother, my father, they believed in me!" 

"... And you let them down," Victor said softly. His body and lips tightened. "You let everyone down." 

A trickle turned into outpour, and Thelise sank to her knees and cried, "Like a sore loser," Victor thought. "Like a child." To Victor, that's all she was now, and if he could not help her, it was much easier to drop her. All that mattered to him was his image, his reputation, his fame. He had to remember that. He suppressed and silenced his feelings for her, and removed himself from his very body, forcing it to turn and leave. "Find a new partner." 

"No! You will not walk away from this," she spat. "The world will know what you have done, Victor Naught." 

 Victor looked back, beside himself at the sight of her once-beautiful face now contorted in hideous despair, wringing out the tears from her eyes. "And you will bring me to justice?" he asked, "When I have done nothing wrong?" 

 "Most assuredly you have." she said with a choked voice. Her quiet words boiled as her cheeks turned red with resentment, "When this match is over, I will personally see to your punishment! You will be paraded through the streets in nothing but shackles, pelted with rotted fruit, and marched into the Violet Citadel!" 

"And I must ask, for what? For being seduced by a slut?" Victor felt as if he was digging a trench between them, but could not stop. He had to distance himself from her. "Tell me, who do you think the world will believe, the nameless priestess, who spent her life cooped-up in a cathedral, denied the joys and pleasures of youth, or the world-renowned, devilishly handsome arena champion whom she just met? When so many women have already willingly forfeited their chastity to me, I doubt there will be any question who is at fault for this.. unfortunate incident." The coldness of his words even took him aback. 

 "Bastard!" Thelise spat, hunched over the floor as if she had been stabbed. He did not blame her for her anger, but did not allow any kindness to show. Her reactions, her words, while understandable, were unprofessional and beneath him. This was her ugly side, and he clung to the image now before him, attempting to burn away any attraction he once held for this hate-filled maggot.  

 "Are you conceding so easily? You do not embody your image of perfection, so 'why try at all?' Is that it?" he rebuked, "I am embarrassed that I thought you had even an ounce of what it took to fight beside me. Why don't you go back to your room and take a knife to your legs again. I promise not to interrupt you this time." 

"A fine idea!" she sobbed. 

But he did not hear her, as his venomous words had graced him with an idea: a way to undo what had been done. The trench that Victor had begun digging between them had shaped into a grave, and the only way to cross the gap between him and Thelise was to climb inside. There was hope... but he had to convince her to fight. Roused, he returned to the conversation. "If you don't care for your own life, then what of the lives of your people?! Should we win, perhaps Dalaran will not belong to the Alliance, but the high elves will remain pure." 

"This match is to show the blood elves what we are and what they never will be again, Victor," Thelise shouted hoarsely through tears, ignoring the sudden calm in his approach. "Vereesa wants total victory, utter humiliation of their kind. How can that be without... without my..." 

"Oh to hell with Vereesa!" 

"Then the same to you, Victor!" Thelise said sadly, "We owe our perseverance to her! She is the only leader we have." 

There was a dry pause between them as Victor boiled, wondering how he could explain to Thelise that there was a way for them to fix this, and that he didn't need senseless threats pressing on his mind now. Even without this development, he and Thelise were no closer to preparing for the battle ahead. "You may remain contractually bound to fight for the Silver Covenant, Victor, but it's the Silver Covenant that will discover what you've done." Her voice lowered and cleared of its sorrow, bearing only her anger. "Dalaran will forever be your prison." 

Victor wasted no time in leaving. "My prison," he thought, "or my grave." 

Anadia Springfire lived from moment to moment, each one achingly longer than the last. The fel energies she desperately craved gave her an addictive rush and an unconquerable high. At her peak, she felt savage and sharp-witted. Her senses were heightened, her awareness bordered on supernatural, and every act was carried out with grace, speed, and precision. But without these energies, she had as much luster and prowess as a boar destined for slaughter. Sluggish but distressed, lethargic but anxious, Anadia shook and shuddered as mind and body battled one-another over which would destroy her first. Her pallid complexion and frayed hair were betrayed by the bestial hunger in her eyes, reflections of her will to survive. 

In spite of her scattered appearance, Anadia found herself bent at the knees and waist over a shoddy wooden nightstand at Cantrips & Crows. A goblin warlock had drunkenly spilled grog upon her naked backside, but was unable to properly moisten anything else. Half-pint still in-hand and his other half-pint slipping out of Anadia repeatedly, his grunts of 'slut' and 'whore' served only to inhibit her enthusiasm, though they were trumped when he lovingly called her 'cumdump'. Though she remained as limp as a ragdoll, something inside her still burned in protest, and after another bout of inconsistent mashes into her vagina, it sighed out her frustration. 

His slimy, semi-flaccid prick fell away from her, and she reminded herself, "I'm desperate..." 

"Eh? What was that?!" 

She hadn't realized she said it aloud. Rather than suffer another strike to the back of her head in the name of pleasing the impish creature, she repeated herself. "I'm desperate!" 

"I fucking bet! Desperate for this cock!" he said with another poorly-aimed shove of his pelvis. 

She reached down between her legs and took his cock and balls into her hand, guiding their re-entry. The goblin picked up speed, but couldn't hold it for long. Anadia gripped the nightstand and grit her teeth, wondering whether it would be more efficient to simply rip off his ball sack and find a way to retrieve his fel semen that way. 

Only a half hour ago, the arena quartermaster seemed like a practical choice for a quick fix. Business had died since the end of the Northrend military campaign, and although the ensuing arena match was drawing attention, no one had any interest in spending their holiday in the Underbelly, let alone last season's attire. Goblins withstanding, the sewers were lonely enough to hear the dripping of so much ill-tended pipework. Anadia was giving this man the most excitement he'd seen in months beyond re-reading the contract that bound him here, and she held fast to the feeling of charity to make her feel better about the clammy, filth-encrusted hands squeezing her cheeks and thumbing around her asshole. 

The blood elf prayed he would think nothing of pleasing her, and that he would touch as little of her as possible on his hopefully rapid climb to orgasm. Her full backside, one of the few parts of her that seemed unaffected by her lack of food and fel energy, instead received a lukewarm sensation. The goblin had poured his drink on her - deliberately, this time— then pulled out from Anadia's body. "Wh— No!" 

"Yes!" He attempted to cram his member into her ill-lubricated rectum. In any other circumstance she would round upon him and lash out, but she knew that he would fail in the best case, and in the worst... 

"Urrnngh!" 

A brief, warm trickling sensation draped over her ass and the small of her back. The goblin couldn't hold his load, raining drops of precious essence onto her skin. 

"NO! Inside, inside—" Anadia reached back to scoop his ejaculate into her hand, smearing her orifice with the fluids. She dropped to the ground, wiping away all she could and using her mouth to clean her hands of the rest. The effect was no longer immediate, but still she sucked and licked her fingers as if she were dying of thirst. It must have been a foul and lowly sight, but the experience was far worse. Anadia felt just as debased as she was hungry. It was immediately decided that her life could get no worse than that particular moment, but that thought had crept up again and again in the recent days. Warlocks were scarce, even in a city of magic, and she was sustained by them. 

This was not a path Anadia could follow much longer. With the arena match in a matter of three days, she was reminded of how woefully unprepared she was and how many training sessions she had already missed with Errog—but she couldn't bear to face him like this, much less-so stand beside him in the arena. Sin'dorei residents of Dalaran would be watching her closely, scrutinizing every step, each one of them wrought with tension as their homes, lives, memories and memories-to-be-made all hinged on her performance. To fight in the arena was akin to walking a high-wire, but to fight in her state was to dance upon it instead. She would be forced to portal to Silvermoon for a real dosage and secure a swift return. 

Thoughts of the Sanctum envigorated her body, soothed her shaking, and put her at ease. Her loving twin sister Staci, untrustworthy as she often was, no less stirred her body, and Anadia thought of every warlock she bedded as a wonderful new friend, remembering each of them like exotic wine, and yet none of them at all, as the evening span into a hedonistic blur. Although temporary, another visit would last her long enough to fight. She closed her eyes with a soft sigh as her senses returned. 

The chill upon the Underbelly's stone flooring, the steady trickling of refuse through the sewers, the repulsive musk of her goblin suitor— this was not the place Anadia would be restored to former glamour and glory. All that was needed was a little more cum to get her home. She turned around and found the warlock gone. Though the addled elf did not notice his departure, she missed him immediately. Filthy and unsatisfying as he may be, the goblin was a fetid pool of water in a vast desert, and Anadia needed another drink to survive. Instead she found a doorway of his friends, each ogling her with lustful abandon. The sour smell of their combined panting enveloped her nose beyond hope of resistance. From the bits of hair sprouting from their large, pointed-ears, to the grit on their ooze-green faces, each stretched wide by boyish grins, she dared only spare a moment looking at the thigh-height devils before thinking of her gun. 

She had regained enough consciousness from what little the warlock provided, and used that lucidity to compose herself. While some goblins exposed and began pleasuring themselves in her doorway, Anadia ignored her lewd fans, stepping quickly into the panties and chainmail leggings piled beside her on the floor. Covering her most vulnerable parts was her way of sending a message as to what was no longer on the menu. They hooted and whistled at her bare breasts until she pulled on her mail jerkin as well, but ot was by the time Anadia picked up her shoulderguards that they had grown agitated with her lack of acknowledgment. Numbers alone would not intimidate the blood elf, and so they jolted forth. 

Anadia slashed the first goblin across the face with a pointed design at the end of her shoulder piece. Her backpack appeared in her hand without her realizing she had picked it up, her attention fully upon her attackers. They clearly had no interest in letting her dress further, so she stuffed her remaining items inside, and when another goblin encroached on her from behind, she swung its full weight around. The force knocked the foul imp back against the wall with a crunch. Reaching deep into her supplies, she withdrew a gun just in time to surprise the next one with a barrel to the face. 

The room went silent. 

Though her other guests had frozen in place, this one's fear was hidden beneath a steel mask. The gun rattled unsteadily in her hands. Anadia's fix had afforded her enough sense to dress herself, but nothing more. She pulled the trigger. 




The Feud Ch. 03



The chamber clicked in muted futility. 

Now Anadia was rigid with fear. The mood in the room altered so rapidly that she felt dizzy from the adrenaline rush. Struggling against her attackers was one matter, but attempting to kill one was a bluff she could not risk being called on. She was not a fan of guns, but the advantage of intimidation without ammunition made it worth carrying. It was unfortunate that the blood elf lacked the cognition to remember that she had never loaded it. Now she would have to improvise. 

The goblin slapped the gun out of his face, but Anadia spun with it, meeting his cheekbone with a butt from the stock of her rifle. She tossed her things into the air and released a kick, launching her hefty bag at another green-skinned devil blocking the doorway. As the goblin tumbled out, she praised the Light for how lucky the maneuver was, but luck did nothing to deter the rest. 

The remaining three charged at her legs, the easiest targets for their height. Though Anadia was able to kick away one, she could not defend herself from the other. They held her feet to the ground, unable to pierce her mail. She decided in that moment that she would not be a victim to these things—worry and fear were not luxuries she could afford. Anadia gripped her rifle hard and battered the horrible creatures harder. Even as blood trickled from their heads, they did not release their clutches. 

 The huntress recognized a losing fight for what it was and forced herself to breathe and remain calm. She was in Dalaran for a reason— with a purpose— and it was not to be slaughtered by sewer scum. She was not a street fighter, she was a gladiator, a champion. She lived, breathed, bled combat. Victory could not have a price too high. 

"Get her top!" cried the goblin from her left leg. 

"Jus' kill her!" called the other. 

A flash of steel in one direction, and then another. Options were quickly depleting, Anadia unclasped her leggings and disrobed to free herself. Removing one leg from one goblin's grasp, she kneed the other before making a tumbling dive for her bag. 



Anadia snatched her belongings and reached inside, retrieving a disclike metallic object. She flicked her wrist and sent it armed and flying back into the room. The moment the explosive trap touched ground, there was a deafening noise, the wood panels beneath her shuddered, and the room disappeared into a wall of fire. The sight of goblins being torn apart, flung in all directions, and washed in flames was terrible to behold, and she pitied them, but as the light and heat seared her face, a sensation of clarity overtook her. Anadia no longer felt the pull of her addiction. She breathed hard, and scurried backward upon the ground, resting only when she had reached a safe distance away from the burning room. A familiar feeling enveloped her. It was adrenaline—the excitement of real combat, the very risk of death itself. All were more fulfilling than any substance she had milked from a cock in recent days. 

The blood elf felt something hot and firm beneath her hand. Looking down, the intact steel half-mask, blackened on one side, cooled beneath her touch. She rose to her full height, watching as others rushed to haul buckets of water to the inn. Immersing herself in the panic, she disappeared easily amongst the crowd and set out to leave the sewers behind her. The match was in two days' time, and Anadia knew exactly how she would sate her appetite. 

Victor had rehearsed his words a dozen times at least. His nerves showed him no reprieve; the dinner he had forced himself to order went cold, though he doubted whether he could keep it down at all. The fork and knife he gripped pitter-pattered against the plate as his anxiety reached his hands. He rested them by reaching into the pouch at his belt and withdrawing a glassy bauble, crystalline, soft, but perfectly clear. Victor held it carefully, allowing prisms of light to echo through it from the warm glow of the Hero's Welcome, and thought of how it was here that Thelise had once sought him out. Now he sat alone, pleading for her attention in the form of letters. The sun had set over Dalaran and still he had not received even an indignant word in response. But she needn't be upset, he thought. From a series of connections, he had procured a draenic item that would draw the corruption from her body. The draenei, once inhabitants of the world asunder known now as Outland, were well-versed in defenses against demonic magic, and crystals—like the one Victor held in his fingers—were hardly unobtainable. 

But time was of the essence. The match was tomorrow afternoon, and both tourism and crime had risen in anticipation of the bloody brawl. Training was far from his mind now, but if they had managed a victory in the arena, it would be for nothing if Thelise's corruption were discovered, and Victor would have no grounds to argue his innocence. He placed the small crystal back into the pouch and wrapped his cloak tightly around him before departing into the Northrend night. 

He checked the mailbox again - something had arrived! He tore open the plain correspondence and digested its contents. Though her words were joyless, elation filled him. 

"Tonight in the Purple Parlor when the clock strikes nine. When you fail, we will say our goodbyes." 

Thelise would see him— reluctantly, but that didn't matter. Victor need only wait a few hours more. Tomorrow, he would walk away from this dreadful predicament a free man. They might even find time to prepare for the fight, to further assure his victory. A smile lit up his face and the warmth in his cheeks shielded him from the evening chill. He ventured away from the Hero's Welcome, away from his anxiety, and took to a leisurely stroll across town. 

The evening greeted him with twinkling lanterns from wall-to-starry-sky, the Violet Citadel penetrating the astral display as a looming shadow; a firm reminder of the colossal weight set upon him. There did not seem to be single nook or cranny in Dalaran where Victor could escape its sight, but so uplifted was he that he decided he would not even spare it a thought... at least, he would try not to. 

Hanging right into a tunneled alley, Victor found himself striding in the direction of the Violet Hold, Dalaran's prison and what might have been his future home. The large stone structure was imbued with magical defenses he had never spared time to study, but atop that, a large moat severed in half by a stone bridge. The only thing preventing the moat from doing anything other than seeping listlessly into sewer drains were great walls that separated visitors (or escapees) from plummeting from the floating city to their death below. The sound of water usually relaxed the warlock, but here it provided only odd, implacable unease. Standing at the stone lip at water's edge, looking into the littered and fish-sparse pool to ponder why his nerves were still at unrest. And then he felt it. 

The sound of ripping wind filled his ear. The ground rushed to meet his face as something heavy wrapped around his legs. He held out his hands in futility and his head smacked against brick. Stunned, Victor looked down to see a bola twisted around his shins, entangling him with its iron weights. 

A cloaked green figure oozed from a nearby wall and puddled onto the ground like slime, bounding forward and drawing a crossbow. Victor could not discern an identity for his assailant, and reacted as if it were a meager cutpurse attempting to catch him in a vulnerable moment. He reached for his spellblade and pointed it at his bindings, burning them away. Arrows zipped at him, one catching him directly in the shoulder, and another grazing his neck, but as badly as the wounds stung, he was no stranger to injuries. 

Victor rose his palm to the sky and a shadowy force crashed into the ground where his attacker stood, stunning it so that he might flee. Lifting himself up and away from the prison, he sought to drag the fight out into the open where guards might aid him or the attacker might disengage. Arrows followed him into the streets of Dalaran, lodging themselves in the stone walls. It was in the grassy central courtyard where the warlock found cover, escaping their line of sight. When the whistling of missiles finally ceased, he hesitantly looked around. 

At the center of the clearing was a large golden centerpiece had been planted upon commemoration of the Lich King's defeat, depicting soldiers of both races and, around that, several tall hedges stood at different corners between path and grass like attendants to guide visitors to around the statues. Though it was possible Victor's stalker had been stopped by now, he took no chances and a held out his hand to summon a demon. 

An ink blot of darkness rose from the ground and took the form of his voidwalker. Forcing calm, he presented an authoritative command. 

"Jhomnar, look around that corner for a man with a bow." 

With a loud, gaseous hiss, the voidwalker acknowledged the order and moved silently away from the hedge and out of sight. His bulbous, shadowy form seemed to be consuming the light around him, revealing only the white of its pupil-less eyes and the golden shackles around its wrists. With a moment's time, the minion returned. 

"There issss... nnnooo onnnee... coward!" 

Unfazed, Victor cautiously left his hiding place, expecting to see some hustle or bustle, or perhaps some guards with a masked stranger in custody. What greeted him instead was an arrow in the gut. He stumbled backward and looked down in shock, and his voidwalker stepped ahead of him to take several more, each projectile sinking and disappearing into its dark mass like stones into a lake. Steeling himself, he took cover once more and ripped the arrow out of his stomach before giving himself the chance to think through it. Demonic fortitude had granted him the toughness to endure more damage than traditionally taught through other schools of magic, and as blood gushed from his wound, Victor did not waste a second in conjuring a healthstone to close it. Crushing the smoldering green meteorite-like object in his palm, he rubbed it over the piercing like a salve, and it closed with unsettling ease. 

The hedge behind him rattled violently as more arrows struck it, reminding him of the icy sweat prickling upon his neck and the lack of combat gear protecting it. Even with bright, sulfurous fire in his hands, they remained cold as well. More projectiles hit the plant, breaking away wooden limbs— a much preferred substitute for his own. The attacks halted. It was now or never. 

He leapt out the opposite side of the hedge and faced his attacker once again. His voidwalker had disarmed the stranger of their bow, but was trapped in a block of ice in the process— clearly he was dealing with a hunter. Victor smirked. Disarmed, they were nearly worthless as opponents. The green cloak flew open, revealing a female figure and a pair of daggers in both hands. His confidence was quickly devoured by her wild determination— she advanced rapidly upon him. 

He turned to hop over a park bench and run down an adjacent tunnel. As he reached the halfway point down the path, a loud, metallic cling rang against the walls and a steel disk bounced into view. He had only just started to recognize the explosive trap when it exploded before him in a fountain of flame. Victor stepped back, trapped between a killer and a wall of fire. Flight was no longer an option. He span around again to greet a fist with his face and a knee with his abdomen. The assassin had hand-to-hand combat skills far surpassing his own, and with an arm wrapped around his neck, the warlock was easily flung to the ground. 

Victor saw stars as he smacked his head on the pavement a second time. He opened his eyes briefly to feel something tumble from his belt. 

Clink, cli-cli-clink, thud. 

His eyes fixed on the crystal bauble, which bounced, rolled, and dropped into a sewer drain. "NO!" he cried, before the woman dropped down onto his stomach, knocking the wind out of Victor's lungs. He coughed and gasped for air, still reaching out for the crystal, but seeing only fire. "Thelise...!" His last hope of mending their bond was now lost, barred from him by the explosive trap's wake. 

Looking up at his attacker with new fury, he saw the glowing green pupils beneath the mask. "Of course," he thought, "a blood elf!" His will to survive grew into unbridled rage. He raised a hand to let her taste of flames of his own, but he could hardly breathe to cast a spell. Straddling him, the blood elf raised her daggers high. Victor winced and tried to steel himself— it would take more than these little fangs to kill him, but they would still hurt. Afterward, he would hurt her more. 

The blood elf brought down them down at once and ripped through his belt. 

"A thief? A common thief?" he thought. He lifted a hand to strike at the side of her head, knocking the ill-fitted mask from her face. The blood elf shook away her dizziness, her hood falling away to reveal long ears and a wild nest of ruby hair tied poorly behind her head. Her thin, elegant nose and tight lips were eclipsed by her eyes, which were burning with tireless lust. Distant and unfocused, the lines and circles around them betrayed her madness. Victor hadn't any idea what was in store, and that alone frightened him. 

She pulled away his belt and tossed it aside . Money was not what she was after, but whatever it was, it didn't matter now. Thelise was gone—perhaps he could search for the dealer again and buy another bauble—but if he did, this blood elf would be the one to pay. Victor raised another hand to cast a spell, and was immediately stabbed in the shoulder. 

Saying something in Orcish, she ripped open his trousers, breaking button, zipper and all. "No!" he coughed out, not in pain, but in reluctance, "Fucking.. psychopath!" He thought to lift himself up, but the dagger lodged in his body convinced him against it. Still, he shouted "Get off!" 

She could understand him no better than he her. Lessons on Common and Orcish were reserved for political figures and select special forces, codices of knowledge held only in the minds of those left alive from a time before factional ties were severed. He hadn't so much as learned a word of Thalassian in his life— he wasn't permitted the opportunity, and now he was left without reason as to why this was happening. 

This was it— all that he had to look forward to, tonight. The sick freak of a blood elf would have her way with Victor in the tunnel toward the Sunreaver's Sanctuary as he bled out onto the street. His eyes fixed to his shattered hopes behind him as she reached into his undergarments and pulled free his half-mast cock and stroked it vigorously. He shut his eyes and tried to disappear, but he did not, and neither did she. 

Victor thought of how disappointed Thelise would be to see him now, and as little as she cared for him, the chase that she had provided was enough to tell him that this was an uncommon woman. Victor was good-looking, usually charming, but mostly famous, but Thelise neither saw nor cared for any of this. She was strong without him, she was sufficient without him, she was truly pure... until he had laid with her. 

Even ridden with guilt, vague thoughts caused him to swell and fill the blood elf's hand. Her strokes slowed to accommodate his awakened member, and her face disappeared behind her disheveled mane. Victor felt the cool, wet cavern of her mouth envelope him. The soft crackling of dying flames was all he heard; not a word of warning or foreplay was shared between the two. As the explosive trap began to die off, so too did any chance of arriving at Thelise's residence with anything more than a head injury for her to mend. He breathed deep as his member reached her throat, filling his nostrils with the sour combination of spent fuel and cum-stained sewer slut. 

If he was to be molested, here, on the pavement, he would force himself to enjoy it no matter the circumstance— "This woman doesn't seem to be the type interested in half-measures." Victor did not have to give her his enthusiasm, but as far as blowjobs went, this was one of the most ferocious he had ever experienced. The blood elf took his cock as deep as it would go, twisted her head, and removed her mouth from him— tasting him, licking him, cleaning him with every dip. Even her teeth were put to delicate use against the head of his prick, holding it still while her tongue flicked over its savory geyser. 

The sensation was otherworldly, but Victor had enough presence of mind to push her off—gently—with his hands at her shoulders. She obliged, smacking her lips needlessly as she relinquished his cock from her mouth. Victor did not want to attract public attention to this stunt: it was bad enough that he would not see Thelise this evening, but to have her hear it second-hand elsewhere would eviscerate what little respect she still had for him. He kept his face directed at her, lest he be recognized, but the blood elf grinned up at Victor, her pale, sunken features alight with satisfaction. 

She knelt before him and unclasped her mail leggings, allowing them to fall loosely to her knees before she pivoted to the side, allowing him a pin-up view of her butt. It was a charming, heart-shaped ass, but Victor still hadn't any interest in exploring it— until she grabbed at the base of his cock and stroked it firmly. It had been a long time since he had a partner this enthusiastic, and it didn't help matters that her hands had him in a disturbingly precarious position. He gulped and watched as the blood elf rose over him and guided his member into her flush pink cunt. 

Victor felt the warm, viscously moist flesh against the tip of his member. With some willpower, he veered himself away from her hole, soaking himself with her fluids and accidentally teasing her with the same motion. His cock passed over her concealed clit and she gripped him higher—tighter—and descended upon him. In spite of her sickly appearance, her womanhood was as snug as any other elf— as Thelise, probably. 

He despaired at the thought of the priestess. Reality enclosed upon him like an iron maiden, every feeling of vulnerability and helplessness pierced his body, yet ignored his cock. Victor attempted once more to fight her, but the pain from his wound was now too great to grit his teeth through. Small and defeated, he shut his eyes as the blood elf took him in, feeling the length of his shaft become enveloped in wet warmth. With her ass facing him, he could not see her regardless, so he imagined the high elf in her stead, bouncing up-and-down upon his cock with voracious enthusiasm. 

The quick pumping sensation was phenomenal alone, but was enhanced still by his fantasy of Thelise. Even with the wound in his arm, Victor failed to resist his masculine urge to grab the elf by the hips and impale her velvety depths with his cock. He brought her down to the very base of his member doing just that, pushing as far as he could until the woman cried out. Whether it was of pain or pleasure, he found it satisfying all the same, but the sound did not go unnoticed. 

"Cease immediately!" called two guards from the end of the tunnel. 

He praised Sargeras for their arrival. Instinct and emotion dictated that he fuck this creature until he laced her with his seed, but his head and his heart did not want her— Thelise possessed his thoughts. The blood elf was caught, literally, with her pants down, but rose to combat the guards anyway. Both were adorned in Sunreaver colors of red, gold and green, but despite sharing her faction, they did not hesitate to take up arms against the blood elf. The assassin backpedaled into her leggings and bounded away as she pulled them on. She took off in a sprint in the opposite direction, but before she could leave the tunnel, her body went stiff, and she froze in the position of someone who had just flattened against a wall. 




The Feud Ch. 04: Finale



Staci knew about the fel crystal's disposal. This would be Anadia's last gasp — she was sure of it. Staci took her sister by the neck but, to the huntress' immediate relief, she did not strangle the life from her. Instead, Staci began scrutinizing her, toying with her like an odd meal. 

"Why do you still have bags under your eyes? My god, your pores..." 

She didn't know, but she was close to finding out. Anadia tried to pull away and fend off the haughty priestess, but Staci was as unrelenting as a mother and not even half as kind. 

"Your hair is looks fried, limp—rattier than usual." 

"Well, I just spent the night in a cell—" 

"Show me your nails! Give me your hand..!" 

"You expect me to-to walk out of that place looking like some storybook princess?" 

"Don't play games with me, Anadia," Staci replied like a venomous snake, "Where is it?" 

The question hung in the air like bad gas. Anadia said nothing, but could not avoid it. She could only stare back with soft, frightened eyes. 

"WHERE IS IT?!" 

Her child-like defense mechanism was ineffective; Staci was steel, and her gaze cut into her like a sword. Not a second passed before her hands and nails were at Anadia's throat. She broke free, but received a strike to her cheek in turn. 

"I went through Hell to get that crystal to you, and you threw it away?!" 

"Why are you doing anything for me at all?! Until a few weeks ago, we were as good as strangers! Why you showed up is..." 

As a candle upon the table began to overflow with wax, so too did questions spill from Anadia's mouth. "Why am I fighting this match at all? There are at least a dozen highly ranked and decorated Sin'dorei Champions who could have taken my position in this tournament! Why was I chosen?" 

Anadia fixed her gaze upon her. It was time Staci provided answers. 

"..You still don't get it, do you?" 

"Explain it." Anadia said authoritively. Staci did not waver. 

"Anadia... my political and social advancements are great. I have made the right friends, shaken the right hands, kissed the right cheeks, and I have earned and burned a few favors along the way. However, I am anchored, burdened somehow... by you." 

Anadia's eyes widened, feeling affronted and vulnerable. 

"You, the free-spirited ranger, who hops between battlefronts as quickly as she hops between bedrooms," she scoffed, pacing around their rented room at the Legerdemain Lounge. "Oh yes, word has gotten around almost as fast as you do! I never imagined that sponsoring you for this arena match would actually make the situation worse. I thought it might give you the opportunity to refocus, and develop yourself. I thought that it might busy you enough that you'd curb your frivolities. ... Of course I'd be wrong!" Staci shed her calm exterior as quickly as she had donned it. "What a fool I was to wager my opportunity for a seat at the Regent-Lord's side on my dear sister's self-control or sense of decency!" 

"Self-control? Is that a joke?" Anadia said, raising her voice, "You weren't concerned about exercising any of that the other night! As I recall that was your idea!" 

"A sacrifice for a greater good! Better to consort with the sleaze at the Sanctum then hear another story about your high elf pets. You almost blew my nomination for..." 

Anadia tuned her sister out for a moment, turning away toward the white brick walls, not wanting to hear anymore, not wanting to be here at all. If she could shut her ears without being forced to prolong this awful conversation, she would in a heartbeat. Anadia felt bad for what she had done to Staci's career, but it was no excuse to be spoken to this way. "I don't exist to further your political agenda!" she said, whipping back around. "I like to have sex, so what? I enjoy it!" Anadia lowered her voice to a pointed whisper, "I like the feeling of a big, fat cock in my hands—both of my hands. I like feeling them throb, I like feeling them inside of me...! And I bet you would too, if you could lose the frigid veil you seem to enjoy wearing so much!" 

"I—" 

"You had as much fun that night as I did, Staci. I saw how quick you were to get on your knees, to take one into your mouth. I don't care how you talk about what positions you're taking on, what office you oversee, or seat you've claimed. That sensation of a man between your lips, filling the space behind your cheeks— the sound of him sighing, groaning, grunting over you like a primitive creature as you force him to fight release: that's power. You're just upset because I'm strong enough to claim it!" 

"Upset? I'm LIVID. Livid because "claiming it" got you thrown in prison like a drug-addled streetwalker! I had to explain that away, I had to pay for your bail, I had to pay for your mana fix, had to pay to smuggle it in! I'm furious because I try and I try and I try to fix your shit, and you spit in my face!" 

"Errog paid—" 

"No, I did, and I had him pick you up because I can't even be seen in public with you anymore! It's legendary, Anadia! Your deeds are legend! Never before has any champion been i the night before a match, with the fate of ALL of her people on the line, for public indecency no-less!" Staci hissed, her hands shaped like claws. "And who does she get caught with? None other than her opponent!" 

"I didn't know!" 

"Well you're damn lucky he got arrested too, so that I could at least spin it like it was his fault. Sorry to say, I've used my LAST favor in this city to preserve that lie, and he won't be out to poke any holes in that story until the match practically starts. Please do us all a favor and kill him next time so that I don't have to be related to the 'Whore of Dalaran'!" 

"ENOUGH!" roared Errog from beyond the doorway, "Here's your bauble, witch. Take it, shove it up that barren desert you call a cunt and be gone!" The orc tossed the fel crystal at Staci, who caught it at the tips of her fingers. Rising to her full height, she looked to Anadia, whose eyes were on the floor. 

"Return it," Anadia said. 

"What?" 

"Or throw it away. Just get it away from me, Staci." Anadia insisted. 

"Going cold turkey was never a smart idea." She held the crystal up. Its emerald radiance gave the priestess a sickly glow. "You boarded this ship, and now you expect to be able to just jump off? Ha... You'll drown, sister." 

Anadia's eyes drifted toward the crystal. It made her salivate; it made her think. She enjoyed sex, she enjoyed her fix... but not out of Staci's palm. 

"You don't know the meaning of the word," she replied. "And I'm not sure I do either, now." 

------------------------- 

"If only people could understand," Thelise said, "If only they'd see... we're not the same." Victor saw only the deepest hatred in her eyes, though they were not affixed upon him. 

"The blood elves... Even cleansed of their corruption, they could never be like us again." 

She refused to look at him, even when speaking to him. 

"Hubris is their true impurity, and they will be stained by it forever." 

She refused to look at him, even in death. 

Her final words remained in his mind as Victor held her lifeless body in his arms. Thelise was still warm with the heat of battle, but her blood coated his hands, soaked his sleeves, dampened his chest. It was everywhere. An arrow protruded from her breast, lodged deep and unable to move—a simple healthstone would not be enough to save her. Victor brushed the hair from the her dahlia-white face and held her head upright, as if setting her in a restful pose would somehow correct the grievous injury that spelled her end. He shook her, begged her to wake, but her now-hazy, heterochromatic eyes only seemed to roll away from him. It made sense that Thelise would not want his face to be the last thing she saw. Instead they were set upon some distant hope, a sinking sun giving out its last glint over the hidden horizon, her arm outstretched in a vain attempt to grasp it. 

He laid her to rest. There was no time to properly mourn, and no way that he could. The eyes of his foes were upon him, but he did not care. He rose to his feet. He shook, but did not tremble. Victor was the rumbling mountain, vast and precocious. So small were his opponents beneath his shadow, for he was ready to erupt. 

------------------------- 

Anadia's world was a spinning plate balancing atop a stick. The air was thick with the rusty scent of Errog's dismembered remains. As mighty as her friend was, the warlock hit him with something that could be nothing other than a mine cart full of dynamite. The violence with which he was cut down belonged in nightmares, and he was scattered in a macabre display of blood and cold entrails. Terror crowded all other thought from her mind, leaving only base instinct and primitive reaction. There was nowhere to run and death to greet her if she fought, so she froze and remained in hiding behind the crates. Her senses sharpened, and higher cognitive function eeked out small victories; the rattling pipework, the dripping water, the sight of old blood on the walls. The thought that others had died exactly where she stood was as unsettling as the high elf's eyes in her final moments. 

Cultural division had brought them into the Dalaran Sewers, and learned hatred entangled them in battle. No priest had ever struck her with such malice as the one called "Thelise"—not even those that dabbled in shadows. Anadia wrapped her arm in bandages until the pain of severed circulation outweighed that of the priestess's holy fire, but the sight of that woman would not leave her. 

Thelise despised her; true hate beyond sense or reasoning. They did not know one-another, and yet all the prejudice and fear shored upon her face like the debris from years of war—between Horde and Alliance, between blood elf and high elf, indulgence and discipline. Anadia couldn't hope to mirror or even capture her emotion. In the width of her eyes Anadia saw an unbridgeable chasm that separated the two. In the bends of her face she saw the inversion of their worlds. In the haste of Thelise's actions she saw that Anadia stood in perfect antithesis to every heartbeat that had drummed in her chest. 

Thelise's destiny was confrontation. Anadia's was victory. 

Anadia was a black obelisk to Thelise: meaningful, mysterious, and menacing. Thelise did all that she could to overcome the huntress, but Anadia watched determination disintegrate into dread as she painstakingly drove the last arrow into her heart, gripping the shaft like a hilt as it dug into her flesh and cut between her ribs. In her final breaths, a glint of emerald shored over the high elf's watering eyes like pollution at low tide. Did she dabble in darkness whilst Anadia abstained? Did she, deep down, seek to understand her opponent's kind as Anadia sought to understand hers? If that were true, this elf was more her kin, more her twin than Staci ever may have been - to kill her would be to— "No." 

Anadia forced herself to believe what the link between them was all imagination, but it made the end all the more excruciating to behold. Thelise did not make a sound. She soldiered on and on into the unknown until her head and eyes rolled listlessly to the side in search of something hidden within the encroaching night. Anadia became weightless without the priestess's accusing gaze upon her, but Errog's prompt decimation made her feel equally fragile. The human had no vendetta against her, but she was an ant beneath his magnifying lens, and her corner of the arena grew hotter every second. 

But Anadia was not yet found. 

Concealed by a pile of haphazardly stacked crates, Firemane had briefly joined her in hiding to lick his wounds. The red-haired lynx would not survive the night. Its fur was mottled with char-black patches of burnt and split flesh; the burns would require time to mend that Anadia did not have. She spared bandages for the beast. 

"You've done well, Firemane," she said quietly, running her fingers through its thick fur and petting her companion affectionately. She had always adored the natural softness of his mane. She never did groom him as well as he deserved, and yet his fur was more comforting than any pillow. On quiet nights in the forest, Firemane would allow Anadia to rest her head upon him so that she might gaze the stars. She stroked and stroked his neck, hoping that the memories of running her fingertips against the fine hairs would return them there somehow, someway. 

Her face wrinkled and her eyes welled with tears. Errog was dead. Firemane, too, would die. Though she would exit the arena the same way she came in, the world outside would never be the same—or, if she allowed herself to cry here, now, there may not be a world at all. 

With a hard heart, she ordered Firemane to take to the battle once again. He was tired, weak, wounded. The lynx, for the first time since she had wrestled and tamed it in Eversong Woods, refused her order. 

The tears could not be stopped this time. "Firemane, attack!" The lynx remained still, refusing to budge from its place upon the platform. The moisture in her eyes was blinding. The beast turned and pushed against her instead, rubbing the top of its head into her chest and shoulder. Firemane loved her as she loved him, and Anadia wanted to believe that it knew what would happen once it left the cover of the crates. "I'm sorry," she thought, "I am sorry to do this to you." 

"Firemane," she said again, swallowing her sorrow deep down to the furnace within, "attack!" Finally he rose and stretched his legs, lifting his tail and flicking it around, finding his own balance. "Go." 

The simple word, the simple command was more difficult than anything she had ever been forced to utter to anyone. She had known Firemane since she was a youngling. She had grown with him, struggled with him, fought alongside him. Her friend had saved her life innumerable times and now she was condemning the lynx to give his own. Anadia felt her chest hollow and her eyes overflow as his tail disappeared from around the boxes. Their journey together was finally at its end. 

------------------------- 

Thunder filled Victor's ears and a force of chaos erupted from his body. The bolt of unstable energy pierced the animal through-and-through, dispatching it and leaving it beyond recognition. It slumped and fell to the ground like an oversized children's toy. Though it had died, it barred his path to the platform like some feeble attempt to slow him. He sheathed his spellblade and took the feline carcass by the neck. Its face was limply frozen in the moment of its demise. "There will only be one soul leaving the arena today." 

Victor shoved it out of his way and a strange jingling caught his attention. There was no collar on the lynx, no bells, no trinkets—the sound came from elsewhere. The glass bauble lay before him, scuffed and dirty amongst the bloodstained walkway, but with its shape intact. It was obvious that the storm drains of the city would empty into the arena, but regardless, the discovery was as miraculous as it was bittersweet. Thelise was lost. 

Victor gripped the object so tightly that he thought it would shatter—but he sprung forward in a fiery sprint, hunting her murderer. He swept his hands through the air, raining conjured fire all around the ring. His hastily summoned voidwalker mirrored his combat readiness. The two scoured the room for the blood elf until she was flushed out. Arrows flew at his face and neck, and survival instinct forced him behind a crate. His demon was too durable to be picked off. His demon took the lead and Victor reemerged to join the scuffle. 

Adorning her with flames, Anadia only seemed to break sweat as she sunk a slew of arrows into the ink-black monster. Each disappeared one after another until the bow was ripped from her hands. She moved with the jerking motion, spun, and drove her daggers into the voidwalker. Even absence incarnate had limits— the spawn evaporated into lifeless smoke. 

The huntress reached down for her bow to find Victor's foot set hard upon it. Their eyes met again, and he saw the urgency and fear behind them. She shrieked, she stabbed, she struck home; direct strikes with both daggers into his chest. Like popping a balloon, all of the air left his body at once, and he gasped to reclaim it. The bite hadn't registered—Victor wouldn't let it, he wouldn't acknowledge her except to destroy her. Thrusting his palm forward, an explosive blast forced the redhaired menace away from him. She staggered, but remained intact. 

"That should have killed you!" he shouted what she was likely thinking as well. 

He persisted, conflagrating her once more, causing her to stumble and nearly fall from the platform. Anadia was alive still. It was unacceptable—for Thelise, for him, for Vereesa. He recalled the Ranger-General's words. "Humiliate her," she had said, "Show the world what the blood elves are." Victory must be total. 

Anadia grasped for the crates nearby, the fel flames smoldering a quiet death while her open wounds painted blood on the wooden panels. Victor closed in for the kill. 

"Take no chances," he said, his mind reeling with how he would mete out justice. It was the only distraction from the sting of extracting the knives in his chest. 

One—it was like being cut open. The blood loss was significant. He threw it as far as he could. 

Two—he blacked out for a second. "Maybe this was a bad idea," Victor thought. 

The warlock withdrew his only healthstone and crushed it. It was satisfying to do—and it gave him a devious idea. 

------------------------- 

"End it," Anadia whispered. 

She was disarmed, damaged, and tired. Her reputation was tarnished into ruin, her sister was no sister, and her friends... Errog, Firemane, they were gone. Destiny promised their reunion in the afterlife. What was Victor waiting for? Her eyes remained open, but her vision faded repeatedly. The burns on her body elevated her to an apex beyond feeling; her mind was shutting down. What was next? Would her soul leave her body? Would she watch her own gruesome demise? 

Denial was not an option. Anger had given her two good hits, and he was regenerating from them now. She could not speak to bargain, and it was not worth it. Anadia would die on her feet, a proud Sin'dorei, a worthy huntress, free from Staci, from the bonds of her addiction. In a sad but sound way, that was a victory in and of itself. No human or high elf could ever take that away from her. 

She watched the warlock reach into his pocket and say something. "... Thelise..." the word was all that she recognized, like a horrible wind chime. His face was crinkled with anguish, his bearded chin quivering beneath shuddering lips. Anadia felt his anger; the pall of vengeance upon her like a hundred feet of water and yet she would not find the peace of death beneath it. Hope gleamed in his hands. Victor produced a small, round, glass object. 

Was he going to make her choke on it? 

Batter her skull with the ornament? 

Life persisted in her fleshy shell—it couldn't leave her soon enough. She gulped, tasting her blood for a final time. She couldn't promise her people she wouldn't scream. Anadia closed her eyes and waited. 

A loud, glassy, crushing sound in front of her face. 

Did it happen yet? 

Something was leaving her body, exiting her veins, her tear ducts, her pores, from beneath her fingertips; every possible, imaginable spot on her body. 




The Feud Ch. 04: Finale



Was she dead? Was this her departure from the mortal shell? It was strange, and it was not peaceful, but horrid. She felt hungry, thirsty, so thirsty—three-weeks-without-water-in-Tanaris thirsty. Her heart was pounding— "That doesn't happen when you die. Your heart doesn't beat when you die." 

Her eyes flew open, and all she could see was energy. 

Strands of mana in the room floating like cerulean spidersilk drifted in and out of space. The violet eyes upon the wall focused upon her for the crowd to view her death. And in the center of this galaxy was fel energy; a beautiful, man-shaped sun of emerald standing before her. It was the embodiment of the heavens, a manifestation of all that was glorious and good. It would free her from her final torment, from this arena, from all the burdens of civilization and the wretched, manipulative denizens that infested it. It was without beginning or end. It was her savior. 

------------------------- 

Justice had never been more absolute, victory never sweeter. Victor cowed the elf and brought her gently to submission, the very instrument of Thelise's would-be salvation being that of her killer's demise. Tossing away the glass vessel, he looked upon his prize with delight and disgust as she sat like a battered ragdoll, partially crumpled, face blank and mouth agape with passive awe. Finally Victor had the time to take in her features; her slender nose, her sun-kissed skin and pink lips, split with a cut. Anadia's eyes were as bright as dying candles, her lids flickering rapidly as the woman within silently cried out to be fed. 

This is what Thelise wanted people to see, to understand. A blood elf drained of their corruption was but a husk, a cage of skin and bone around a heart that beats only for mana. Victor looked to the violet eyes upon the walls as they stared intently back. He wondered if they would stop him from what was to come. In the chamber overhead, chanting could be heard; words lost to the thrumming pipework, but he knew it to be his people. Their stomping, their hammering, their cries for blood. Just this time, and only this time, he would deny them. 

Shutting his eyes and turning his palms to the ceiling, Victor meditated upon the darkness within him, honing upon his self-serving thoughts and desires, immersing himself in his ego, his fear and despair, and reconnecting with his anger. He took and held a deep breath, feeling energy build in his chest—a scream begged to erupt from his body, but was withheld. The warlock trembled as he had successfully willed his Dark Soul, rendering his power far more potent and his energies imposingly unstable. 

Anadia awoke immediately from her doll-like stupor and leapt at him like an animal onto prey. Her arms wrapped around his neck and their lips locked—"That's it," Victor thought. It took all he had to ignore the wafting scent of singed hair and flesh as she seemed attacked him with affection. A low chuckle rose from him as he grabbed her at the hips without resistance and met her tongue with his own, knowing fully well that his fel energy was being drawn into her body. Anadia's knees buckled. "She's desperate for me," Victor mused in his head, "This is perfect!" 

He and the mindless addict continued to kiss until he grew sick of the coppery taste of blood. Anadia's hands immediately began to busy themselves at the outline of Victor's prick. He wouldn't allow that to happen—not again, not yet. This time he would be the one in control, and he would have his own needs set first. He pushed the elf back and grabbed the top of her mail jerkin. With his empowered magic, he was able to focus his power and melt the chainlink inches at a time. Anadia hissed and whimpered, but whether it was in pain or in lust, Victor did not care. He tore the jerkin from her body and pulled it back over her arms, revealing her bare chest to the world above. It was important that everyone to see the woman as he saw Thelise. He would treat her as he did Thelise. He would degrade her as he did Thelise. Perhaps this would allow her to forgive him. 

Truthfully, Victor did not know if that was true... but it wouldn't stop him from trying. 

The tight sleeves of her jerkin bound her wrists, leaving the warlock to maul and molest her exposed breasts. The hunter wanted more from him, but he refused her needs. Victor's patience would only make her more volatile, and volatility is what he wanted the crowd to see. 

------------------------- 

Anadia shook with joy as her celestial mentor granted her bliss beyond the very meaning of the word. His kiss empowered her, his touch lightened her, and everything else seemed to make all the colors around her glow vibrantly. She breathed deep to center herself for the next teaching. 

An outline appeared around the apparition like silver lining around a nebulous cloud of green. She could make out his features only for moments at a time as he moved. Large, sturdy hands traveled to her waistline—searing light burned her, but then more weight disappeared. Where flesh once was, there was only emptiness now; the curvature of her thighs was replaced by twinkling stars akin to a constellation. It was a marvelous experience to be nothing. Anadia felt as if she could fly around the room, but all she wanted was to orbit her sun—to enjoy his presence, his gifts, to please him and serve him for the eternity of afterlife. 

His hands took shape again and rubbed between her legs. Pressure—then pleasure. The effect was gradual, but knowledge came immediately. Anadia would give anything to unite with the spirit, and the spirit, too, seemed to enjoy partaking in her feminine energy. She gasped, moaned, and felt her form buckle at its blessing, acquiring strength with every small thrust of his fingers like music from an instrument. She wanted to show her appreciation, but he seized her by the throat and forced her to look above. Within the void, a window, and within the window, hundreds of angelic faces stared down at Anadia. She was elated that they would witness the celestial tribute her like this, and wished for them to join in as well. 

Freeing her hands from her back, she boldly pushed away the being's arms and took a pose of prayer. Anadia reached at last for the epicenter of his masculine energy. It was not graceful, but she finally grabbed onto something that filled her palms. It was large enough to hold in two hands, but she would take it all into her mouth if she could—and she tried in earnest. An electrifying taste tickled her buds, but she wouldn't shirk or insult her guide. She embraced the feeling of the member in her mouth and rolled her tongue back and forth over the bulbous head, back and forth, on and on until the shocking sensation subsided for a salty, flesh-like taste. Sickly sweet nectar began to coat her tongue and spread along her inner cheeks. She drank it down immediately. 

The elixir was clarity, it was truth. She lapped it up faster than it could flow from its spring. Up and down, she bobbed her head upon his shaft to coax more of her enlightenment from within. Drop after drop, she seemed to understand more and more, and it only encouraged her to improve her performanc. The salty taste grew more potent as she pressed her tongue harder on her mentor's cock. A man's groan boomed over Anadia's thoughts, filling her mind with its volume. It was so excruciatingly loud that she was forced to stop, but the foreign object continued to penetrate her lips without regard for her discomfort. It was no longer illuminating, and the sting of the alien entity clutching at her hair only summoned alarm and panic. 

Her quickened pulse expedited the return of her senses. Opening her eyes, Anadia saw that her divine guide was instead a monster. 

------------------------- 

Victor pumped himself into her mouth, the head of his penis gliding over and probing against the back of her tongue. As he gripped the roots of her hair, cruel humor forced a smile on his lips, thinking of what it would be like to suffocate her on his prick. Bending his knees and jamming his rod more directly into the orifice, he tested the idea some, reaching new depths in her tight elven throat with a few firm thrusts. Anadia gagged—held her own—and coughed wetly. After exploring this possibility several times, Victor looked down at her red, tear-strewn face, and concluded that even this was too generous a death for Thelise's murderer. 

Withdrawing from Anadia's mouth at last, he pulled on her hair and smeared his shaft over her face, wiping her cheeks clean with her own spit and announcing new meaning for the huntress before their spectators above. The woman's lips parted naturally for his dick, but would receive no more of his attention. Victor yanked her up by the ponytail. She obeyed his brutish command, staggering to her feet, but it was then that he saw that her mind had returned. Perhaps pain had awakened her, but if that were true, why hadn't she fought back? 

"Ha, I bet you're enjoying this, aren't you?" Victor said, manhandling her chest with his free hand. Her face showed only small discomfort, clearly suppressing her reactions as he pinched and toyed with her breasts. Even Anadia's ignorant silence turned him on—Victor stroked his cock before her, eyeballing what little remained of her attire: a simple red thong, trimmed with golden thread. His gaze returned upward to meet her own. "But I know what you really want." 

Jacking himself harder, the warlock produced another helping of precum from the tip of his manhood with the thought of how pleased Vereesa would be at this spectacle. He could imagine the amply busted high elf squirming with delight in her seat as he facefucked the huntress, how debaucherously grateful she would be for his service to the Alliance. For now Victor would give her something more for her to touch herself to. Rubbing his masculine secretions over Anadia's lips and pushing it between, she sucked on him like it were a lollipop. Her tongue ran over its tip and cleaned the outside of her mouth on his departure. 

"That's it," he whispered, "feed." 

Her eyes and pupils widened enough for Victor to see the fireworks behind them. She pounced on the warlock like a Stranglethorn tigress, but even as he staggered back, his sneer clung to his cheek. There was no danger. Anadia's hands shot toward his armor rather than his throat, grabbing and clawing at the felweave regalia like flames beyond all control; unhooking, untying, and tearing at all that she saw. The warlock lifted his knee up against the dampened crotch of her panties, and the blood elf replied desperately by rubbed herself against him. Anadia's eyes fluttered. Her panting grew loud. Her nails nicked his flesh. 

She was wild magic. 

She was chaotic energy. 

She was Victor's to wield, and Victor's to break. 

------------------------- 

Anadia's return to the land to the living had been a most lewd awakening. She had cried at how badly she wanted to choke—on his meat, on her spit, on his semen, it didn't matter. She desired death, and it further eluded her as she became a passenger in her own body. When the warlock pushed his thumb into her mouth and smeared his foul essence upon her lips and tongue, the familiar and intoxicating weight swelled within her head and followed down through from vein to limb, from limb to every finger and toe. The heady tincture of fel energy was all the more potent with how long the blood elf had withheld from it, and she fell forward and out of her own control. 

Anadia lost all sight of her opponent and saw only a source for precious mana, too slowed to stop her own movements as she watched her hands shred away his attire. Her womanhood ached and tingled with need, and it was met with short-lived relief as Victor gave her something to grind upon. Still, it was no distraction from the steely prize standing erect before her. She pulled her thong aside and seized it, pushing him directly against the lips of her elven cunt. She guided Victor carefully toward her entryway until the lightly curved head poked ever so gently inside. 

Her movements were compulsive. Like being electrocuted, there was no control, and no way to stop it. Anadia realized the ridiculousness of her behavior, but it was too late. She felt herself peel in two—her hot insides divided by a pillar of flesh and muscle. She gasped, and her cheeks burned hot with embarrassment. Anadia's eyes rolled up to the face of her assailant—his unkempt goatee, the wrinkled cheeks which bore the lode of his foul smirk, the hazel daggers that carved into her skin as she felt his prick fill her. A hole above his head hung like a halo over the devil, but within it she could see faces—the faces she thought were angels were a mortal audience, looking down on them in both rapt awe and contempt as Victor violated his opponent. 

The initial hurt would be worth it, she thought, and she guided the warlock further in by lifting her leg up over his hip. Her fix was life, her fix was control, her fix was freedom from this suffering. Victor was a fervorous partner, be he seemed to know enough to take his time in his endeavors, slowly testing her body, in and out, little by little pushing himself deeper inside until at last she felt his balls tap upon underside of her ass. Being full of him, unable to hold anymore, Anadia emitted a heated sigh onto his chest—he pushed again even deeper, his swollen head poking at the entrance of her cervix. It was brief, sharp sting, and Anadia squealed in protest. None of this appeared to faze him in the slightest. 

Victor grinded into her with slow, deliberate movements, coaxing more lubricant from her with each thrust. Anadia focused on her goal—what she needed to survive this ordeal—and squeezed against him. His haughty expression faded as she gripped his lance. With every ounce of darkness she sucked out of him, she recovered, grew stronger. She only hoped he would be too stupid or horny to notice. Clarity seeped into her and purged the fog from her mind—"My plan must be working," she said aloud. He smiled, unable to discern her elegant language, taking it only as a cue to fuck her faster. 

He filled her elvish cunt, the ridge of his head clipping her g-spot several times. Her toes curled and teeth clenched. "That's it, that's it, that's it..." she said with every thrust, staring hard into Victor's eyes. She bit down on her lip as his scrotum slapped against her nethers, the unmistakable clopping sound serving as icing to her cake. Victor was getting closer to his release, closer to her renewal. She clenched hard against him, reaching down to find her clitoris, dressing it in her own juices with a single motion. Anadia was tempted to bring herself to orgasm, but her gratification was secondary to her and irrelevant to him; she wanted his cum. She wanted to be pumped so full of it that it would trickle down her thighs. She wrapped her legs tighter around his waist, unwilling to let him go, and reached up to place her moistened finger into the warlock's mouth. He sucked it clean to the nail. 

"That's right, lick it clean, dog." 

Victor's rod glided in and out of her body, stirring her pot until it foamed with her secretions. She held fast to his neck, eyes affixed upon him as he began to slow. The end was near, and Anadia called for it with soft, breathy sighs and small squeals of joy. 

"Mmm, c'mon... more... give me more..." 

The blood elf's enthusiasm was for his seed alone, but the act itself wasn't displeasing or unfun. Her calves pressed against his back and she clutched him with every movement, squeezing hard on his throbbing cock. "What a dumb fucking animal you are— Come on, fuck me... fuck me, you ugly brute. Fuck me!" 

The warlock grunted like a trogg and withdrew. Shock and hubris grappled Anadia as she thought she faced the loss of her prize. Suddenly she found herself being spun onto her stomach, ass on display for the world. He smacked it hard two, three, four times— a display of violent approval for his sheath. Anadia winced, but the sting told her she was still breathing, still conscious, still in this fight. No further discomfort was necessary in this regard, but as she felt his girthy member against the rear entrance, she knew far more was in store. 

------------------------- 

"If this blood elf whore has any innocence left to take, I'll claim it here, now, before the eyes of her people." He pressed the tip of his dick hard against her rectum, but made almost no head-way. He placed his fingers within his mouth and slowly used them to penetrate and pervade her body. Inching them inside digit by digit, Victor stretched her against the backdrop of sighs and sounds of protest. Even when he reached knuckle, he did not stop pushing, driving and pumping into her elven body with his hand until Anadia squealed so loudly all of Dalaran would hear it. 

Victor's efforts to ready his opponent's orifice were working. The process had done nothing to calm him, and his prick still stood like a tree branch. Anadia dropped her head to the wooden crate, but he would not let it remain. Victor grabbed hold of her tangle of red hair, twisted it around his fist, and plunged his rod into her ass. She screamed. The fit was far from easy, or perfect. In spite of his generous preparation, every inch of his manhood was taken only begrudgingly by her body. 

None of this stopped him. 

Her hole was almost unbearably tight, but the sound of her cries disrupted his fun. As much as he enjoyed the punishment he was bestowing upon Anadia, the piercing sound in his tears tore him out of away from the simple joy of brutalizing the young elf. 

"This would be much..." He grunted, "... easier.. if you'd.. just... shutup," he said between thrusts. He bent down over her and pulled her fiery mane to the side. 

"Take it," he growled into her ear. 

"Take it," and he pumped her again. 

"Take it, take it," deeper he went, "Take it you slut!" 

His cock swelled hard against her inner walls. Being able to do this almost made him forget the frustration of losing his ally, the object of his affection, the reason for doing this at all. Anadia had quieted now, and fucking her ass for so long without resistance was pleasing enough to make him want to keep her as his own, a slave for his use, a small reward for avenging Thelise and humiliating the blood elves. The throaty moan that came from the whore only told Victor that she agreed. 

Surely her life could be spared. This blood elf was no match for Victor, and much less-so a concern to the Silver Covenant. He would do what he came here to do, and she would leave with him willingly, on her knees like the animal she was. The front his thighs clapped quietly against her lusciously full cheeks. He continued work her rectum more, more, until the familiar feeling of climax brewed and rose up along his manhood, threatening release. 

------------------------- 

Anadia wondered what sort of life she would have after this, if one at all. Relinquishing whatever dignity she had left, she reached down between her thighs and massaged the tender lips of her cunt, wetting her fingers and sliding them up against her hooded clit as Victor continued to assault her body. The discomfort subsided quickly—men had taken it from her before, but this was still different. The blood elf shut her eyes from the world, thinking of how she was destroying her reputation and dishonoring her people. She thought of Staci, what she must have thought in watching this. 

Her eyes opened again, narrowed in small ferocity. What would she say, now? What brilliant solution or condescending shred of advice would she develop this time? Anadia thought of how much Staci had 'helped' her, and yet it was clear that it was always to her own ends, to improve her own image, to further her political agendas. She thought of how quickly she must be backing out of their sisterhood now, how she must be stammering explanations to her peers, how she might even claim her own twin was adopted! Anadia smiled at the thought of her sister suffocating, drowning beneath every false, self-promotional word of praise she had uttered about her. She relished the idea of Staci being every bit as humiliated as Anadia was. The titillation only caused her to throw herself deeper into her activity. 




The Feud Ch. 04: Finale



Anadia rose to the tips of her toes splayed her ass proudly. She tried her best to work whatever muscles would squeeze upon Victor's tool—even rocking her body back into him. She took him as deep as he would go, more than she had in any other fashion. Thoughts of Staci excited her. Out of friends, out of favors, she'd be forced to fall to her knees and open her mouth. The blood elf returned to massaging her clit, pondering the thought of her own reputation being destroyed as well. 

With every thrust of his member, her victories and past successes were erased in the eyes of the crowd, and soon very parts of Anadia began to disappear. She was transformed from combat prodigy to common whore - and she loved it. They could take it all, all of it away from her. It was never hers to begin with, all of it illicitly gained. She savored the slim chance that Staci would be mistaken for her on the streets, that she would be stripped bare, that men would crowd around to fuck 'the easiest elf in Dalaran'. It would be a small compensation. Anadia did not belong in this arena. The obscured and painful memories of her friends lingered beyond her arousal, but the trickle of precum from the warlock's tip was enough to numb her. The huntress was no more. 

The sensation of girth exiting her anal cavity ripped her from her realizations and self-observation. She was torn from the crates and forced down onto the ground with in a shoving motion. Sound returned to her ears as she looked up at Victor, who looked and sounded as if he were hauling the massive load she was promised. His face was flushed. His muscled arms strained as he gripped his throbbing, veined cock. His hand moved like a blur up and down the shaft. At long last, Anadia would have her fel energy, and would be reborn again. She opened her mouth expectantly and shut her eyes, her ears filling with the sound of all those who had come to watch her fight, booing her, booing like a loud, long, mournful howl for the combatant that died today. What she had done. What she had become. 

Anadia tried hard not to think of all the elves she had displaced and only of the blessed gift she was about to receive. Her tongue rolled out onto her lip and she tilted her head back, unwilling to let even the smallest amount of Victor's precious seed be wasted. His sighs and grunts grew louder, his stroking slowed. The blood elf reached up to cup his balls, rolling them gently against her fingers for a moment before they to began to tense and draw closer to his body. Anadia was so desperately eager to taste his undiluted cum—she had waited too long, fallen too far now to not be rewarded with her ultimate vice. 

A strained silence came from Victor, and a hot, sappy splattering against her cheeks, over her eyelids, her nose, onto her forehead, in her hair. It was hot, it was thick, and none of it was on-target. Her discomfort was apparent on her face, she whimpered with disdain. The gooey essence seeped off of her jaw and onto her shoulder, her chest, and the floor. "No—no!" Anadia cried. She trembled in terror and rage. Words could not form causing her lips to quiver and her teeth to grind. All that she had sacrificed, all that she gone through, all that she had endured was for naught. 

A final spurt had laid itself over one of her elongated ears, what she thought was a final insult, but Victor, in all of his gall and nerve, took her long tussled hair and used it to wiped his dick clean before discarding it like a used tissue. His sweat-glistened body flexed in magnificent success, and he raised his fists in triumph. 

"FOR THE ALLIANCE!" 

Anadia looked on with despair and a mask of semen. She wiped her eyes and turned them toward the ceiling. She did not speak Common, but she knew the sounds well and understood their meaning. Above them, a great echoing of his words could be heard in celebration, a tremendous crash like the rattling of earth around them. All those of the Horde who had clashed steel on the battleground with that filth knew their battlecry, every orcish warrior or elven ranger who had the fortune of eluding death knew the chorus of their defeat—but Anadia would neither die nor merely survive this day. 

"You soulless bastard!" she growled with a voice beyond that of her own. On her knees, Anadia might no longer be a gladiator, and without her tools, she might no longer be a huntress, but even without Errog or Firemane at her side, Anadia had sworn an oath to the Horde, and she would always have her word. Before Victor had wizened to her frenzied state, she reached up and ripped his spellblade out of its sheath. It was imbalanced and cumbersome, but heavy enough to do the job - she swung wide, and the human could not retreat in time. 

It was quiet, it was quick, and for all the blood that covered her, Anadia had thought she had severed an artery. She had not aimed to kill, only dismember, and by that definition she was successful. The vile fluid that painted her body was richer in fel than anything she had ever been given willingly. 

Baptized with blood. 

Reborn in red. 

Anadia was a member of the Horde once again - Victorious. 

------------------------- 

In one of the many windblown spires of the Violet Citadel, Vereesa sat within a cushioned seat, idly tracing a finger around her second glass of elven wine. She had little interest in nursing it for yet another half hour, even in the company of the charming dwarven bartender; a brunette whose jovial compliments and casual gossip she would reward with a gracious tip. She valued the distraction, but it did not cause the grandfather clock against the stone wall to accelerate at all. Aethas Sunreaver would be coming before the eleventh hour, but he was not a welcome guest to this sanctum. 

The sound of a shaken cocktail provided an ambient tune for the highly decorated hall. Violet drapes bearing the eyes of the Kirin Tor appeared to keep the Icecrown chill from creeping through the walls, but she knew magic kept it out, just as it was responsible for the purity of the wine she drank, the quality of the clothes she wore, and for the innumerable other perks of calling Dalaran home. "Magic..." she pondered aloud, fueled by mana just as much as she and her people were. 

She grasped the glass and twisted it between her pale fingers, ruminating. Was it mana that made that Sin'dorei girl behave that way? She never had the opportunity to ask. Vereesa's encounters with blood elves had been all too frequent since they had taken residence in the city, but she had never seen one act like that. Was that sluttiness a common part of their identity, or a lapse in personal judgment? What if her actions had a purpose? What motive would be worthy enough for a gladiator to throw away her reputation, her future, and potentially her life? 

The answers eluded her, but Vereesa had learned long ago that the things that the things that escaped her ultimately didn't matter. Some matters were not her business to understand. 

An armored figure of red, gold, and gray appeared within the entryway at the far end of the room. She finished her glass quickly, letting the sweet, dry liquid fill her stomach with even more fire. Aethas Sunreaver was beset by two near-clones of himself. He could never hope to take her on his own. Perhaps it was a force of ranger habit, but Vereesa had deliberately distanced herself from the door to inconvenience him. Watching him and his Sunreaver guards dance their way around the tables gave her a wry smile, and he faltered beneath it like a boy asking a pretty girl to the ball. He nearly knocked a chair over by the time he arrived. 

Vereesa was practically beaming with restrained laughter. Aethas summoned composure, and with a breath, carefully paced through his words. It was all for the better. If his voice cracked, she might burst. 

"Ranger General Vereesa," he began, growing less steady with each word thereafter, "I have come to take you into custody, as p-per to—" 

"A glass of wine to calm your nerves, Archmage?" 

"—To take you into custody, as per to the conditions set forth and agreed upon—" 

"Yes," Vereesa said, standing taller than even him without her boots. She discarded the smile. She hoped the not too embarrass him too badly in front of his subjects. "The winner of the arena match as determined by the side that kills the other in combat, I am keenly aware." 

Aethas's eyes were hidden beneath his metallic-looking headgear, but his chin lifted with confidence. "Then I accept your surrender, Ranger General." 

"And why would I do that?" Vereesa asked, folding her arms, "The conditions have not been met." 

"You speak of—" 

"The warlock who yet lives in the infirmary. In our infirmary," she reiterated, "and while he may not make a complete recovery, he will not be succumbing to his most unfortunate wound. I have placed him under heavy guard to ensure it, so spare yourself the trouble of paying him a visit." 

"You insult me as much as you mock yourself—he fell in combat!" Aethas hissed, "In effect, he lost—you lost the match!" 

Vereesa was unwilling to hear another word of his nonsense. "If he stipulations call for a battle to the death, Aethas—" 

"He fell in combat!" Aethas snarled over her. 

"You call that combat?! I think combat ended when—" 

"He could not fight on!" 

"—your combatant spread her legs and—" 

"The only elf still breathing in that arena was a Sin'dorei, even you can't deny that!" 

"And what a beautiful example you selected to represent your race! A fel mana addict, who saw it better strategy to wrap her hands around a cock than a weapon! To get on her knees than to die with dignity." 

Aethas paused. "Victor was hardly a helpless victim in the matter! We are well aware of Anadia Springfire's display and own up to it, but—" 

"Your Champion's display, Aethas! Be proud of your people! They have so much to revere!" 

Vereesa's caustic tone was normally beneath her, but tonight she happened to find it at the bottom of the wineglass. 

"We have taken her sister, who was her sponsor and confidant, into custody for the damages done to our cause, and seek Anadia for questioning." 

Vereesa's eyebrows raised. "You 'seek Anadia for questioning.'" She could hear his tiny heart pitter-patter beneath his armor. "Because you cannot find her." 

The air was pregnant with tension. Unsurprisingly, Aethas was the first to break under the silence, but rather than make excuses, his voice darkened, "What do you know, Ranger General?" 

"I know she did the Quel'dorei a great service today. Really, who would agree to join your ranks now? And for that, we express our gratuity by not evicting your people from Dalaran." 

"This is outrageous. This is an affront. Mark this moment, for the full might of the HORDE will rain down upon you!" 

Vereesa laughed haughtily, "Surely you jest, Sunreaver. Why would they risk all-out war, let alone their lives just to acquire a few more blood elves? To take an outdated tourist city in a cold, scourge-blighted land that no longer has any strategic value or relevance? I doubt it." 

Aethas clenched his fist. 

"And if you try to make a move for your weapon, just remember whose company you keep." 

The locking of a crossbow rang out from over the bar, the ponytailed barkeep holding it in a ready-to-fire position. Across from her, a pair of human mages emerged into visibility, each battle-ready and faced toward the blood elves. 

"You and your people are guests here. Let it remain that way, for their sake." 

Aethas' choice was easily made, and his words carefully chosen. The Feud came to an end. 

------------------------- 

Waves shattered against the hull of the Bravery, causing the wood to croak and creak as it pushed back against the might of the Great Sea. 

Anadia could not hear it. 

The scent of saltwater on oak mingled with that of burnt kerosene from hanging lamps, filling the sleeping quarters of captain, sailor, and stowaway alike. 

Anadia could not smell it. 

Rapping gently against the walls was a broad portrait of mountainous landscape, a tasteful accoutrement to the bounty of books that encircled the presently-occupied captain's quarters. 

Beyond the ruffled black fur of the worgen above her, Anadia could not see it. 

For a moment there was weightlessness, and the Bravery smacked down onto the icy waters again, sending the small library tumbling onto the floor, but all that Anadia felt were her hosts. The roaring ocean and groaning of the ship was the perfect mask for their hedonistic symphony. Flesh slapped against flesh as the pair of taut-bodied wolf-men sandwiched her between them. They could scarcely contain their grunts of pleasure, and some explaining—or bragging—would likely be warranted to the crew upon docking. There were few words to describe the seemingly unending thrusting and retreating that she experienced at their claws: Full, perhaps. Whole. 

As they synced, Anadia's moan turned into a throaty howl of her own. Her heels clung to the back of the worgen's haunches as she ascended to another orgasm, their knotted members hitting on all the right places in succession like a key to a lock. She lost her grip on his leathery flesh and laid down onto the strong, fur-laden chest of the one beneath her. It was he who took her breasts with his talonesque hands and nurturingly upheld them for his brother to sate himself. The long tongue rolled out from the top worgen's mouth and curled itself around her nipples, though the sensation was a meager cherry atop the cake. Her body rocked and shuddered. For all the rippling waves of ecstasy, it felt as though the very boat had crashed into the rocky coast of Durotar and continued its journey on land. 

Numbness spread through her toes and fingers as her blood seemed to recede from every limb like receding waves. All of the sudden it rolled back again, leaving her incredibly warm all over, soaking wet from sweat, saliva, and primal secretion. Anadia was too empty-minded that she, at first, scarcely noticed the fact that the two beast-men were working themselves to their own climaxes. 

"Gilneans are such gentleman," she remarked in elvish whisper, "The lady always comes first." Attempting to grab hold of the lover above her, she made the mistake of peeking at his face—their bright yellow eyes never ceased to make her skin crawl, and she made an earnest effort to avoid sharing another gaze. The animal beneath her had no reservation against treating her like meat, nipping on her ear as his hairy arms descended onto her hips, steadying her ass for better penetration. Still, it was the one atop her who was the first to let loose his seed, pouring cum unto her womb and plugging the exit with the swollen head of his animal-prick. 

It was Anadia's second serving from them and she had almost completely forgotten that one of these unseasoned refugees was a warlock—let alone whichever one it was. In spite of this post-orgasmic haze, the dose of fel-tinged semen was as invigorating as a potent cup of coffee, and her nerve endings all tingled to life in that instant. It was convenient that her body would reawaken this way, as it was merely seconds that she would feel the second worgen unloading within her ass, decorating its interior with hot spurts of the sticky-sweet essence. There was something very empowering about squeezing the last of it out of him. Even if he had brought her satisfaction, it was Anadia's body that had brought him around for a second time, and then slayed him yet again. 

Removing the worgen was hardly a simple matter. Their cockheads were hefty, thick, and bulbous, and Anadia was sore. She winced through the pressure and pushed them out one after the other, spilling their fluids onto the bedspread below. Panting like dogs, the men collapsed onto the coarse linen sheets. If they had to be disposed of after this, it would be doing the Captain a favor. Anadia already missed the silks sheets of Silvermoon. 

They would never grace her skin again. 

Rising to the balls of her feet, the elf stretched with all the vigor of a morning's rise. The sun, too, would rise soon - she could see the violet, red, and honey yellow upon the horizon. When it did, it would do away with the storm that rocked the vessel. She would sail on peaceful waters and arrive to greet a new day in Kalimdor. In the eyes of her people she was no longer a blood elf, but in her own vague reflection on the window, she saw something more. 

Anadia had grown, and as a seed grows into the sprout, so too did she shed the expectations set upon on her. As a sprout breaks free from the topsoil, so too did she break free from shadow of her sister and shed her family name. As a stem blossoms leaves, so too did Anadia grab the daggers from her pile of clothes; their weight and maneuverability felt so natural that it inspired her in a way no bow ever had. So, as a rose pricks careless children, she, too, shed the blood of the unwary worgen. 

Anadia was in full bloom, no longer bound by the reputation that forced her destiny, no longer burdened by the guilt of 'addiction', but instead reborn anew. Naked and stained with blood, she would never again be a champion of the Sunreavers or the Sin'dorei, but as the rich sunrise colored the room a burning gold and cast her shadow ahead, a new path became clear. 

From that moment on, Anadia would be her own champion. 

THE END  

***** 

Author's notes: I know I've lost a significant portion of my readers through the time it's taken me to write this, but I would sincerely express my gratitude to all of you who have read and enjoyed this story to its conclusion, and more-so to those of you who taken the time to vote and provide feedback on my writing. I am thrilled to say that I will now be undertaking a new adventure and applying the many things I've learned from writing the Feud to a world of my own design. From the bottom of my heart to the keyboard in front of me, thank you ALL for allowing me to guide you through this journey and the growth of Victor and Anadia. 

Now go find something else to get off to! :D 

P.S. Poor Victor. I desperately wanted him to have closure with Thelise, and tried to make some pre-match shower meetup happen to redeem and balance his story time out with Anadia's, but it didn't work. At all. The characters just wouldn't click, and I regrettably didn't give him the supporting cast Anadia had. Thelise despised him too much and 'forcing anything' to happen would have just made the match go even worse for them both. Characters really take on a life of their own! I will miss them all so, so much. For those of you who nabbed their names (I see you redhaired Anadia Hunters!), thank you for allowing them to live on as your toons! :)