0 comments/ 2268 views/ 0 favorites Zhelaine Templeborn By: AnyaWVossand Herein lies my first accounting. I am Zhelaine Templeborn, an elven inquisitor of the goddess Vasya. It is my solemn duty to venture out into the wild and uncivilized places, and bring the ignorant masses to their knees (sometimes forcibly) so that they, too, might understand the majesty of the Sanguine Lady. Read along now, and learn a little something about the my present, past, and future. The Marvelous Adventures of Zhelaine Templeborn (Written with the assistance of Anya W. Vossand, my scribe) Entry 1: My Arrival at Anondor "There's something not right about her." "How do you mean, brother?" "She's just... I can't place it. She's wrong. She's just wrong!" ~ They whisper their pathetic qualms to one another, these acolytes dressed in black robes. A milk maid would hardly be impressed, let alone made to cower at the might and terrible beauty of Pain that is Pleasure in this house of Vashana. As my more seasoned escorts guide me through the hallways and antechambers of this sinister and dark abode, I note that many of the younger practitioners avert their eyes from mine. Perhaps it's because I stare at them with unveiled disapproval. I had expected better. In time I'm led to a room carved of black stone and arrayed in leather and steel. My tastes are similar and I find it pleasing, especially the way the firelight from the iron sconces shivers as if in fear of being struck. Faces in agony and ecstasy are carved into the metal, their passions glowing in negative all around me as I'm invited to sit in a tufted leather chair in the center of the room. It's comfortable, and it's perhaps the only thing I actually approve of in this entire place in my official role of the Lady's inquisitor. A tall, gaunt individual enters from a doorway directly in front of me, the metal studs of his boots clicking ominously upon the stone flooring as they approach the small table before me. Another chair is set there, that one an exploration of how to make a simple wooden seat as miserable as possible. This must be my liaison in this city, and I await the cleric's first words of greeting. "Through the darkness you've come..." he intones officiously. His robes bear a shadowing hood, leaving only his scarred, twisted mouth visible. Jaundiced teeth look dry in the torchlight as he pauses for affect, his breath a fluttering, weak thing. "...and into the temple of Vashana. The Lady of Whips. The Dark Queen. Tremble at her name, O guest within the twists of her hallowed abattoir!" Oh please. My own body is slender like his and just as tall. I can't see his ears nor his features, but the inelegant set of his mouth and the in-artful method of his steps convinces me that he has at least some human blood in him. And perhaps on him. I, however, am entirely elven. A northen elf, with skin nearly as pale as snow and hair as white as the clouds in the sky. My silver eyes flicker in the firelight, looking at him from the comfortable, velvety confines of my own cloth hood. Yet this is connected to a simple tunic, strapped to my lissome, favorable body with leather belts and a pauldron of layered steel plates on my right shoulder. A triple-jointed gauntlet of delicate iron protects my right hand, and matching iron shin-guards are strapped to my black, supple, leather boots. I refuse to chafe while I travel. I give this wretched husk of a man time to appreciate the difference between us before I smile, my full lips just curling up on the right side as if to gesture at my armor rather than the elegant curves and delicacy of my unarmored left shoulder. His lower lip droops slightly as he breathes, and I purposefully take in a long, slow breath to boast how easily I can do so, arching my back just slightly before I sit up gracefully and properly in my chair. "I quiver at the name of your patron and lady, the mighty Vashana. The scourge of her influence splits my spirit asunder and leaves me breathless." Perhaps my eyes glint with excitement at the thought of being scourged by a goddess. Perhaps I want them to. Clearly this cleric is puzzled at my warm affection, but I don't let him linger on it. Were these clerics to discover the true meaning of "Pain is Pleasure" I would be summarily out of work. I go on to say "And I am honored, good cleric, that you have allowed such a heathen traveler into your hallowed Sanctuary of Chains. Anondor is a lovely city, especially the Shades overlooking the mighty Olorion river. I trust that your fellow adherents to Pain will not mind the temporary lodging of a dabbler in your art?" I'm skilled at this, and far too arrogant to pretend otherwise. Flattery, when used correctly, can leash even the most inflexible of superiors to one's own purposes, and even now I can see his disgusting mouth curve into a smile as I wind that symbolic strap slowly around my wrist. "Well said, my dear" he rumbles, the faint glint of his rheumy eyes moving just enough to let me know that he's studying my body and not my words. "Your stay here will not be a problem, so long as you conduct your worship outside these walls. As you might imagine, the Dark Lady is a jealous deity, and it might displease her to see a fine, unspoiled body like yours appealing to the wrong powers." And here's where I coil the leash tight enough that I can slip my fingers directly into his proverbial collar, the foolish heathen. "My worship is as you might imagine. But my goddess and yours have something in common. You must know well what the Sanguine Lady's favored tool is, do you not?" The man sits in his chair uncomfortably, shifting as some edge or point of wood digs into yet another part of his bony body. "I admit to ignorance, my dear." Let his dusty flesh creak and come alive. He could not afford my time. Rather than answer in words, I simply raise a delicate, ashen eyebrow and smile knowingly as my left hand unfastens the small knot at my hip. Leather coils hiss as they slide from around my waist to the floor, the solid braided handle comfortable in my hand as I draw the lengths of my bullwhip through my right palm to coil it. Never do my eyes leave his - I could do these motions in my sleep - and soon enough I set the beautiful circular collection of my weapon onto the table between us. Oiled into a deep and almost bloody brown, my whip gleams in the firelight like a dozing snake. No longer do I sit with relaxation either. By profession and practice, when my weapon is loosed I must never be. The cleric's eyes finally pull themselves away from me to look at the whip, studying how supple it might be, and how it might bend and submit itself to gravity when not slicing through the air at some unlucky target. Indeed, it is a fine weapon, but little does he know of the second whip I carry, though I would never reveal it to the likes of him. The scourge I keep wound tightly around my right thigh is my secret tool, hallowed by the Lady for the sacred duty of dealing with her detractors. I can feel the coils of it hugging my leg through my leather trousers, the blades arranged just so to lay flat over a plate sewn onto the leather. Only when the cleric finds himself reaching out a claw-like hand do I make a soft sound in my throat, a sound that's halfway between "Ah" and a slight cough. It makes his fingers flinch away and he moves back, once more admiring my weapon from afar. "You... may make use of our facilities here, for weapon practice only. But now, allow me to show you to your quarters." "I would be most appreciative, sir..." My tone invites him to offer his name, and he does so without thinking. "Malor. Father Malor." In reward my smile is warm, and I rise from my chair by placing a hand upon the arm rest and leaning upon it. The motion required in that case moves my hip and hints at the suppleness of my spine before I stand upright fully, and as I walk by the small table my fingers caress over the coils of my whip, collecting it into my grasp. My steps are easy and calculated to bring me to an open space by chance between the seating area and the door we're aiming for, and as we walk a seemingly careless flick of my wrist causes the whip to dance, curl, and loop obediently around my waist. It's only a matter of tying off the thongs at the end to a catch in the handle, and once more my second-favorite is bound securely to my body. "So tell me a little of yourself, my dear" the cleric drawls, clearly pleased to be the one to lure me to my apartment. Acolytes watch us furtively even as the sounds of chains clinking becomes clearer and clearer the further we go in. Watery sunlight pours down through holes cut in the ceiling, shafts of light illuminating greasy iron chains dangling through all levels of the temple down to the basements. Water rolls down the links like tears or sweat, and every so often, when the sunlight hits the metal just right, rivulets of sanguine red are revealed to trickle down as well. "As you wish, so shall I provide, Father Malor" I say with a tone that lazily hides the sweetness beneath. "I was an infant nearly 145 years ago next month. My true birth date is unknown to me - I was a foundling on the steps of one of the Lady's temples in a far away land to the north. It is why I am called Zhelaine Templeborn." We pass by a few lecture halls, where groups of students watch in stolid silence as their lecturer points out parts of the body on a still-living cadaver. Perhaps an odd turn of phrase, but the fanatical victim is probably not long for this world after the students get a chance with him. I hide my disgust as well as I can, but I don't feign a saccharine pleasure in what I witness. Inquisitors, unlike courtesans, don't need to flatter so much as assess. "How is it that a beautiful, young, unspoiled creature like you has come to favor such a weapon? I had not thought that the temple wh..." He catches himself in time, and I lift an eyebrow to wait for him to sink or swim past this faux pas. "...the temple priestesses of Vasya preferred such pursuits." "Does the lash of a whip not pleasure you, Father Malor?" His throat clearing lasts just a little too long for it to be a random tickle of dust, and I chuckle as he mumbles "We rejoice in Pain." "Ah yes, but do you enjoy it? Or do you merely tolerate its discomfort?" This irritates him, and I get the sense that prodding him further would do me no benefit. The hallways and passages that lead away from the main central chambers of chains lose that feeling of sweating, chilly darkness in favor of a warm, secretive obfuscation. Incense burns in small antechambers meant for wordless worship, and I see a few adherents flagellating their naked backs with flails, knotted pieces of rope, or straps of leather. This more personal relationship with their deity is something I can understand, and while I might not want to mutilate myself, I can appreciate the revelry in it. My own quarters are small but warm and clean, and I can ask for little more than that. Father Malor takes his leave of me, still clearly agitated, and I press my lips into a frustrated line that I pushed him too hard. Not that I had envisioned sinking my hooks into him on the first day, but I had hoped to gain some leverage on him in some way. Now that looks like it won't come to pass, and I will merely be tolerated here. At the very least I can hone my skills, and possibly impress some of the weapon masters enough to win them over. And if I can't earn their respect, I will do everything I can to make use of their influence within the city. Luckily the temple does not follow the hard lines of suffering in every chamber, for I find their amenities to be convenient and comfortable. There's even hot water for bathing. With the travel grime rinsed away, I return to my room to find that my simple luggage has arrived. Just a travel satchel packed with provisions, a few tools of my older trade (one never knows when they might need some more coin, after all) and a journal and pen. The journal is a leather-bound accounting of my journeys over the last ten years, starting with my pledge of firm devotion to the Sanguine Lady and my new life as one of her inquisitors. So far my tales are not as splendid as they might be, but I do intend to live a very long time and there's always hope for something exciting around every corner. With the door locked, I sit at my small writing desk and pen my latest entry: I've finally arrived in Anondor. My stay in the town south of here, called Liindale, was interesting, to say the least. While Vasya's definitely lain her hand upon the town, the only true collection of her courtesans and clerics could be found at a place laughably called The Come and Go. Of course I worshiped there, but I found that staying in one of the other inns was more comfortable. Liindale is a truly lawless place that just manages to preserve balance through collective vigilantism, but luckily I wasn't considered at all threatening. Of course, my garb at the time was quite different than my official inquisitor's uniform. Anondor, however, looks like it has more to offer me. There's a government here, but in my travels I've found that an installed law system is far easier to slip through than the ever-watchful crowdsless places. There, everyone is a potential warden, while here people are content enough to let you pilfer, whore yourself, and even murder so long as they aren't involved. I felt it prudent to present myself here, at the Sanctuary of Chains before I was spotted milling about anywhere else. They are, after all, being kind enough to put me up for a few days. And after eschewing the free room and board at The Come and Go, I find that my coin purse is embarrassingly empty. Perhaps I'll head into town and see if I can't ply my older trade tonight, well out of sight of Vashana's acolytes. They might have a stroke if they saw what else a human body can do besides bleed. Truly, since having entered this particular valley, I've been disappointed in the lack of representation for my blessed Lady. One whore house? I understand that one must do as they can, but it feels inadequate. With such a sprawling city like this one, there ought to be a proper temple to Vasya here. Especially since there are two others that were burned down, or so I've heard; there's more than enough room to rebuild and dedicate the space to a deity far more worthy in my opinion. Perhaps if I could slip into the company of the powers that be I might influence their plans for the sites. Yes, I believe I'll focus on that before I do anything else. What else is an inquisitor for if not to dry this sodden apathy and replace it with devotion? Entry 2: When I First Realized My Purpose If you can believe it, there was once a time when I was innocent. I suppose that sounds impossible - how could an inquisitor of the Lady have ever been anything other than what she is? Ruthless, Merciless, and Fair. Those things are born into your soul, aren't they? Not always. Sometimes they are left there as scars. Take me, for example. Perhaps some of you already have, given the proper coin. But all joking aside, I remember when it became clear to me and the others at the temple that I was destined for something other than the life of a pampered courtesan. Of course they don't allow the children to offer services like the adults do, but we were taught the history of our art, and taught not to be afraid of sensation. Caressing a candle's flame, letting an icicle melt in our hands until it was nothing but water again: in these platonic ways our teachers instructed us the very beginnings of our life. We learned how to speak and how to listen, how to set our hair and how to choose our attire. We learned how to walk, how to breathe, how to remain silent and how to demand attention, and all while remaining appealing. And we all studied and worked hard, because we all loved the Lady and wanted to please Her as well as the teachers. That, and all had their eyes on becoming wealthy beyond imagining. A good courtesan makes a fair wage in a moderately large city. But the truly unique and gifted courtesans draw their business to them, like the sweet scent of flowers draw butterflies and bees. Everyone wanted to be those courtesans. The courtesan. Every single one of us had learned at a young age that to excel meant leaving others in the dust. Every single one of us, except for me. I was different. I had no lineage to boast of, being an orphan, and I had no grand desires to be the wealthiest or the most famous of our Lady's adherents. I felt that Vasya had guided my parents to leave me at Her temple, and She had wanted me to serve Her. So however I served Her, whether in glory or humility, that was what She wanted for me. This isn't to say that I had no competitive spirit - I liked to win at contests at speed and skill, and I liked working hard to perfect methods of walking and dancing and moving. But to me it was all a pleasant game, training me for a pleasant life. And, given that I'm an elf, a long pleasant life. Shortly after the time of my maturation, a large group of Tarrang, nomadic humans inhabiting the chilly northern lands even further north than my temple's snowy city, arrived in splendor and riches. We were told that it was best not to ask how they had filled their wagons with gold, or why their women didn't look at all like them... and why some looked like snow elf halfbreeds. It just wasn't our business, I was informed, and that if any of those men spoke to me I was instructed to be polite, informative, but not to encourage them to keep my company. I was just barely into womanhood and I still looked young, and from what I'd heard these sorts of humans liked the blush of youth a little too much. Of course, a lot of tales circulated in the temple about the Tarrang barbarians. They were not well liked. A few days after their arrival a banquet was held at the temple, courting their favor and courting their riches. Our most beautiful courtesans, male and female, made themselves available during the celebration, providing pleasant conversation, food, drink and, later, company. Those of us who were inexperienced, newly-minted courtesans, were told to dress drably like servants, and to attend to the formidable task of cleaning up after the mess that these humans left behind as they ate. We milled about, invisible and silent as the party carried on into the night, mopping up a spill here, picking up a gnawed bone there. Every time an errant hand groped for one of the 'servants', a more experienced courtesan would deflect their attention somewhere safer and more welcome. I couldn't understand why the barbarians were so reviled. In the temple we were all elven, and most of the elves were forest elves, delicate and fair and glade-born. But I wasn't like them. From what I had been told, the temple priestesses guessed my parents to be the elves from the mountains. Hardier folk, wilder and braver, but not as delicate or refined in our hands or face. I was beautiful then, of course, but these things are subjective, and when raised in a group of sublime beauty, my looks always felt plain. Due to the fact that I couldn't get by on my appearance alone, I had taken it upon myself to be adventurous, to explore and be brave and try everything at least once. While my temple brothers and sisters remained in their warm and comfortable salons, I would be out running and chasing deer, exploring, and generally testing the limits of my strength and endurance. After all, we weren't all expected to be passive. At the very least, that sort of thing didn't interest me. What would Vasya think if I celebrated Her magnificence by just waiting for things to happen? Zhelaine Templeborn Onward into the night, and I was hauling a bucket of bones towards the kennels. The wolf dogs always loved party nights, and I liked to be the ones to spoil them with table scraps. Given that it was a filthy job, I was always allowed to have it. Yet as I walked around the back of the temple, I could see a man pinning one of my classmates to the wall. His body was too controlled to be lost to drink, and he stood at least a head taller than she did (which is saying something, as elves are typically taller than humans). It seemed no great effort on his part to hold her still, nor to cover her mouth to muffle her cries for help. Thinking fast, I set the bucket down and went to Baron's kennel. Baron was entirely a wolf, large and gray and tame as a kitten... with me. I had taught him all manner of tricks because he loved to learn, and he only seemed content to obey me and the kennel master. The large wolf walked by my side, his scruffy shoulders scarred from fights and rolling at about the level of my waist. As we both rounded the corner, I gave him the command to wait where he was, a light touch and a tap of my fingers on my palm all that was needed. He obeyed, his eyes gleaming in the moonlight as I cleared my throat. In my sweetest voice I asked "Excuse me, is there a problem?" I'm sure the large man expected to see an acolyte, demure and tall and unbearably pretty. Instead he saw me, different, bold, and not nearly so elevated in height as the other girl. Of course he saw Baron as well, who simply watched him without making a sound. Slowly his hand moved from the girl's mouth, and he grunted. "I already paid. She took the money. That's how it works with you whores, isn't it?" If that was meant to shock us, it was far off the mark. Whore is only one of the many terms used for who and what we are, and I merely smiled. "Every whore has a limit. If you surpass the limit, your payment is forfeit and you must release them from the contract." Quoting the rules always felt so officious, but on that night I realized why. It lent us authority, and those rules were there for our safety. "Did she state her limits to you, Sir?" The large man snorted and leaned back, his grizzled face pulling into a smirk. "No." I glanced at the girl, and saw the guilt in her eyes at making such an error. "Ah... I see." The clouds shifted, and moonlight illuminated her pale face, blossoming with a large bruise at her cheek and temple. No wonder she was shaken up. "Then that is an error of the Temple, and I do apologize on her behalf." "Fuck off, girl. Come back in ten minutes." "I will trade you." He frowned, the grip of his hands on the girl softening. "Trade?" He snorted. "What? The dog? I'm not into that, girl." "No. You're after pain, Sir." It wasn't a difficult deduction to make, given all the evidence, yet it seemed to surprise him. Swallowing back my nervousness I continued. "You're into hurting a girl and watching how it effects her, and how she looks at you after you strike her. It isn't because you hate women. You like it, what pain does to them. It's beautiful to you. But none of your women react the way you want them to anymore. You've hit them too much. You need someone new and fresh to pain." I tilted my head a touch, sliding my fingers along Baron's fur from between his ears to his shoulder blades. Be Ready the touch said to him, and he licked his lips and glanced at me, muscles rippling. Either this Tarrang man would fall into this seduction easily, or he would lash out and receive a furious wolf for his trouble. The barbarian narrowed his eyes. "And you think you can handle what I like? I've broken women larger than you." I said softly "I don't break." In the end, it was enough to convince him to let the other girl go and use me instead. There was no service in the typical sense at first; there was only pain. It was all he wanted to give me, and I gave him back what he was hungering for. He ordered me to remove my clothing and I did so, my flesh naturally resistant to the winter cold and the chill of the snow at my feet. His arousal was plain in the set of his eyes and the tension in his hands, and in a harsh gesture he ordered me to stand against the wall like the other girl had done. My breathing was changing even then, quickening with nervousness and excitement. This was really happening to me. It was as if he didn't know what to touch first. He approached and looked me over from the crown of my head to my toes and back again, his hands lifting, fingertips twitching, until at last he gripped my small breasts and squeezed them. The feel of his large, calloused hands on my flesh made me gasp, and the tight grip hurt, making me wince and bite my lip. A sharp slap stung the side of my face and whipped my head to the side, and then another turned my head the other way. When I dared to look up at him my eyes were wet and my pupils large with desire, and I think that broke whatever lingering self control he was clinging to. His large hands spun me around until my chest was scraping hard against the side of the temple wall, and his grip tugged back my hips until I could feel the hot bulge in his hide pants pushing against the rounds of my backside. When I bit my lip again, I could taste my own blood. The hot, coppery flavor made me moan softly, and in response I heard the clink of a buckle being unfastened and the flap of leather being pulled open and down. The smooth, straining cap of his cock rubbed against the growing slickness at my slit, the man coating himself in my desire. More blows landed on my hips and back, and his free hand carved deep red welts into my white skin with his fingernails. My flesh could do nothing but sing out in joyful response, my dew coating his fat prick, preparing him for the arduous task of splitting me where no man ever had. I was almost too tight for his pleasure, but his desire and determination won out in the end and I was gloriously deflowered. I'd played with the thought of pleasure through pain, wondering secretly if I had been instead destined to be left on the steps of Vashana's house instead of Vasya's. Perhaps I was meant to straddle the two and serve both, because it felt right. The stars shined brightly like Baron's eyes as he watched over me, remaining at a distance obediently until the contract was completed. I was left alone to lean against the stone wall of the temple, my cheeks bruised and stinging, my stomach and back covered in welts, and my mouth coppery with the flavor of my own blood. I felt wild and feral, the ache in my face and body pulsing with my heart beats, my pupils wide enough to see nearly everything in the heavens. Baron approached when I called him, helping me get back to my feet. He was concerned, but only because I seemed so out of sorts, the epiphany of my purpose in life hitting me like lightning. The wolf waited for me to dress once more and to clean the blood from my face with snow before I returned him to his kennel and let him have the entire bucket of bones all to himself. He'd earned it. Back then, I didn't have the training to protect myself from those physically stronger than myself. I needed a body guard that night, but it wasn't that many months later when I would be my own protection. Back at the party I kept to the kitchens, my appearance frightful as I healed. A cloak helped to cast shadows on the marks on my face, though the split in my lower lip was painfully obvious. The next day the barbarian came calling at the temple, asking for me. I was summoned, and when my superiors saw the damage they gasped, preparing to have my client clapped in irons and arrested. But I implored them to wait and listen, and I explained to them that everything that had occurred had been consensual. The man was surprisingly civil, and I think that was because I had earned his respect. He presented me with a gift of gold bracelets and a gold torque, insisting that I had earned them and more for having proven that Vasya took care of every need. I had converted him. I accepted his gifts with gratitude, and I was more than content to leave it at that. But he had one last present. It was a bull whip, crafted in reddish-brown leather. It shined like oil and slithered when unraveled like a serpent at my feet. Clearly it had been taken from elves, with silver threads laced into a handle crafted from an antler spire. This weapon was far more valuable to me than the golden trinkets, and once again I felt that to hold such a weapon, a tool, was right for me to do. Every season that passed afterwards saw the return of the Tarrang barbarians, and the man would call for me and only me. In time I requested from my superiors the chance to travel abroad, to join the man's war band and see more of the world. My first and best client vowed to keep me safe, and truly one cannot rob a Tarrangish warrior of his prize easily. And I held no illusions; for the seasons I traveled with him, I was his prize. I felt no shame in it. I provided the payment he wanted, and in return he let me travel with him and his men and his women, teaching me the language and customs, and showing me new cultures and places. During this time abroad was when I learned that life wasn't quite what I'd been lead to believe it was. The world owed me nothing in particular, and that was a cruel lesson to come to terms with. Cruelty and unfairness were aspects of nature, running through the fabric of the world like veins of gold or silver. Hope crumbles easily, and even the best of people can be reduced to evil in the right circumstances. I learned, too, that evil and good are subjective, and one cannot exist correctly without the other. It helped me to understand why Vasya was remote. She knew what She was for, and it wasn't to right the wrongs of the world, or to bring about its destruction. Her purpose, and eventually mine, was to help it continue and change and remain in balance. At times that required an icy heart and a certitude that is born in people who are raised in the service of a deity. And through all of that, through all the things I've done and born witness to, I've come to a conclusion. Doing good deeds to satisfy your own desire to be good is selfish, and to do evil deeds for the same reason is selfish. The nature of living things is inherently self-centered, but there need to be some people who do these things not for themselves, but commit these acts because the world needs them committed. Because they are right to do, and not because they feel good. Inquisitors must be beyond such petty selfishness, and that is what I eventually became. Entry 3: A Much-Needed Interlude On Our Quest The cold snap of the winter night air slithers into my mouth and nose as I try to fall asleep. This isn't a good place, or even a natural one. The ground seethes and quakes with the fury of monstrous beings, and wars are being waged underground, maybe beneath our camp right now. I'm with a group of other adventurers, and while we all have our own reasons for risking our lives for this quest to rescue a group of refugees, mine is very straight-forward. I want an in with Anondor's elites, and perhaps if I curry their favor through great deeds I'll be awarded with the temple that the Lady deserves to have built. Personally, I don't care whether those refugees live or die. I don't bother saying it aloud, as most of the other members of my party would ostracize me. And the only one who wouldn't shares my feelings about it, I'm certain of it. Qaunun cares about them as much as I do, and while I don't fully understand just why he's involved in this journey I don't question it. I'm glad for his presence. He seems to be the only one with reason amidst so much madness, remaining devout to his god of rules and slavery and visions even in this lawless place. I drift in and out of consciousness all night, my eyelids cracking open to the low flickering light of the fire burning in our cave. A yawning darkness stretches out behind us, but luckily it doesn't lead anywhere. I made it a point to check before we selected this shelter - it wouldn't do to be ambushed while sleeping. I'd rather be in the inky blackness. Fire attracts night creatures. Sometimes that can be good for hunting, but as I've already noted, the only living things around here are monstrous and inedible. When next I open my eyes, I see a familiar shadow slide over me, a silent step passing over my bedroll towards the dark. It's Qaunun. For weeks I've come to appreciate his company. After having lived so long alone on my travels, acclimating to a life in constant proximity to other people has been difficult. Luckily, Qaunun curiously doesn't seem to mind my distaste for constant socialization. I may serve the Lady, but it doesn't mean that we're all social butterflies. Curious, I slip out of my coverings and follow him into the darkness, careful to listen for his footfalls. He is a halfbreed, some devilishly handsome cross of human and some other more sinister creature, and his eyesight in the utterly dark places is better than mine, so often he goes into the dark and I must follow using my other senses. Tonight is one such, and I follow along as quietly as I can. Looking back over my shoulder, I notice a new figure hunched by the fire - that must be the next person on watch, and by the looks of things he's got his back to us. Maybe he doesn't know that I've left. I'm not sure how to feel about that. I smirk in the dark, thinking of how easy it would be to leave these people to their fate. Let them venture into this fool's errand without the proper resources. Resources I offered to fetch for them, by the way, potentially at great cost. As ever, my idea was abandoned, and so within the next few days we are dooming ourselves to potential slaughter. Perhaps I will leave then. This is not how I've wanted to serve the Lady. I've only undertaken this outreach mission from Anondor to build ties with the local heads of state so that I might be granted permission and funding to rebuild the temple. It has all become so convoluted now that I feel no reason to stay. But that is then, and for a moment I pause and listen. There's nothing but silence all around me, and I feel a chilly coil of worry in my stomach. I've lost him! He wanted me to follow him, else he would have avoided my bedroll altogether. Qaunun does nothing by accident. An adherent of L'Laiya is not so careless. While I'm berating myself, I feel a warm, slender hand cover my mouth, and a tall, trim body press up behind mine. "Shhh..." he hisses into my ear, and I feel strange. Repulsed and aroused all at once. I try to suppress a shudder when his other arm wraps around my waist, and my feet only make the softest sound when he guides me further towards the very back of the cave's far chamber. The campfire is quite far from us now, a dot of light, and I'm in inky blackness when I feel a rock wall press up against my front. The cold stone against my cheek almost makes me gasp with surprise, and I tense, my hands pressing to the rock as his hips grind into me. He's hard. For some reason I had always thought of Qaunun as celibate. Never in my experience did he touch himself for relief at night, but perhaps he was too quiet about it for me to notice. He also never entertains any company, female or otherwise. Save for me, but I'd always thought this was a working relationship. Had I been hoping for more from it? He's never once paid for my services, or even asked for them. The very moment his other hand lowers to cup over my leather-covered crotch, I realize that perhaps I was wanting this from him all along. I bite my lip, desperate to remain quiet, and my fingers curl as his touch grinds the material against my hot flesh. I want him to draw this out, to hiss into my ear and ask me if I want this. For some reason the thought of being made to admit my desire arouses me, but what he ends up doing arouses me more. He doesn't ask. His hand moves away, finding the front waistline of my pants and shoving inside them. I jerk and gasp once, and he growls against my ear, his normally sinister, elegant mouth curled into a seductive snarl to warn me to remain silent. Even as his slender, talented fingers slide in between my hot, slippery lips, I shiver and press my ass back against his hips. Of their own accord my feet shift apart, my legs bracing me like a bitch in heat begging to be mounted. We have all been on the road for so long, and I have gone too long without truly praying like an adherent of the Lady should pray. All those weeks of isolation have taken a toll on my flesh that I hadn't realized, as Qaunun's touch sets me immediately on fire. My lips tremble, voicelessly mouthing the words I want to cry out into the dark - Please take me. Please fuck me! How could things have come to this, where an inquisitor of Vasya is begging a cleric of L'Laiya to use her as he pleases? Perhaps through some black magic of the Feathered God, or mere instinct, he knows. My pants are tugged down roughly to my thighs, and suddenly I feel the hot, needy rod of his manhood grinding against my slit. His full weight pins me against the stone, and he hisses into my ear what I've been wanting him to say this whole time. "Beg." I'm grateful for this position, because were I not pinned my knees wouldn't be able to support me anymore. He's good. Are all L'laiyan clerics this good? Being an inquisitor, I'm always the one in charge sexually, and sometimes I just need to give up control to someone else once in a rare while. Sadly, there hasn't been anyone worth it lately. Until now. The hunger and need in his voice almost makes me swoon, and I swallow down a dry throat. "Please..." I whisper softly. "Please... what?" he insists, the wet ivory of his teeth touching my ear. "Please... Master." It was merely a guess - one of the purviews of his faith is the worship of slavery and all that entails. My words drive his lust higher, and I can feel his cock pulse against my private flesh before he pulls me from the wall and moves me quickly to the floor. My pants are still down around my thighs, and I feel him tug them lower as I lay on my side, shivering with need. I try to push myself up on my hands and knees, but he pushes me back down, grabbing my hair and twisting it as a leash. The arch in my spine hurts, the burn at my scalp making me grip at the stone beneath me, but even so I part my legs as much as I can to invite him. The invitation is accepted in one hard, unforgiving thrust, and again his hand clamps over my mouth and nose. He doesn't wait for my pleasure, but neither does he deny me from touching myself as he uses me. It suits me perfectly well, as I know what I need better than anyone. My flesh parts for him with hot reluctance, a vice grip jealously clutching at his shaft as he ruts his frustrations and needs into me. Where my clothing rides up on my sides, I can feel his sharp, black nails caress and scrape, leaving trails of stinging, brilliant red along my pale skin. Occasionally his hand shifts, allowing me to breathe now and again. My heart pounds in my chest and I feel that it might burst, my pulse crashing through my ears and throbbing up into my throat, and my body tenses one last time before I jerk and succumb to pleasure... ...and then I gasp as I open my eyes. With a shudder I press myself up onto an elbow, my skin tingling everywhere. I'm in my bedroll again, my heart pounding and my skin hot. With a swallow I shift my legs, and the slickness between my thighs, within those leather pants, makes me hold my breath. It was only a dream? How could it have merely been a dream?! Zhelaine Templeborn When I look over at the fire I see Qaunun there, his black eyes watching me, his expression distant and cold... until at last the corner of his lips curl up into a knowing smile as if to say 'these are the things that await you'. Perhaps I will stay with the party. At least a little longer.