Author's Note: This is smut and assumes you're over 18 in reading it.
        Tags: The Elder Scrolls: Morrowind, Dunmer Ash Ghoul female x Dunmer Ash Zombie female, yuri/lesbians, vaginal fingering, scratching, sound-based pleasure, weird insertions, somewhere Dagoth Ur weeps
	Based on a featured image on Paheal: http://rule34.paheal.net/post/view/1026127

	The winds outside howls across the crags and flowing hilltops of the Foyada Mamaea, carrying cursed ash and blessed prophecy alike on the rolling gales. The sun is almost blotted out by the sands and the ash and the blight upon its grains. Every man and woman and child down the sloping hillside homes of Balmora and the Imperial fortress of Moonmoth are quick to find shelter from the whispers of Red Mountain, a hollow susurrus carrying little more but suffering and disease to every undeserving n’wah. To every Dunmer, however, the winds carry the most beautiful notes and tones and whispers, a celebration of the House Left Unmourned.

	And with the winds howling south-west by south, the Poet knows this is the right time for another siren’s song.

	Moving within the caverns of Missamsi, the ash-skinned woman once known as Farena lets her blessed gaze wander across the dark of the caves and the other dark elves wandering within. Missamsi is barely lit by the simmering pools of long-spent magma, layered upon itself many times over until only those without the heat resistance of a Dunmer and the touch of Corprus could barely stand to tolerate the heat of the pools. For the many Sleepers and Ashen Slaves, however, it provides what little light they require until the Divine Disease gave them the sight they needed, and the warmth to heat their tired, worn flesh. The Poet moves between prone feverish Dunmer caught between whispering senselessly for relief and mercy, and between the whispers of the Lord speaking through their lips to shush them gently to calm again. She smiles kindly to the Slaves tending to them, feeding the Sleepers the weepings of the flesh, and offering them the fresh water they had saved from the Odai river below.

	She turns past the large heating pool in the cavern towards the shrine with offers to Lord Dagoth Ur, the once-Dunmer regarding various Ashen Slaves arranging arts in a room with onyx statuettes of their master in its centre. In her radiant vision, she could see them try and hone the music, the glorious music they hear in whispers so far away, drawing in blood, in Corprus puss and with knives into earth and on stone. Their hushed whispers didn’t as much as rise above the winds howling outside of the cavern, barely audible so far within the cave. 

	Further the stately Poet walks, until she arrives before the six great bells, lit from behind by rows upon rows of red candles atop stones, along the cavern walls, and up along the stalagmites and columns. Her personal supplicant awaits, seated before the bells. And the eyeless Ashen Zombie turns her own head towards the Poet.

	Once she was known as Vadi. A pretty thing that turned heads in Caldera where-ever she went until the whispers called her. Away from a loving family. From a community of native elves and n’wah alike that cherished her. Ever further south until she was here. How fitting, then, must it be for the Ashen Zombie to have become the Poet’s Instrument. To turn heads towards the retreats of the Sixth House of Vvardenfell and for them to join the Ash cult and the glory of Lord Dagoth.

	The Poet and the Instrument regard each other, their silvery, supple lips arching upwards in fondness to one another as their eyeless gazes meet. The Corprus had blessed them, chiselled their slender, dark flesh into almost mirror images of one another. Their long, toned limbs have long been cured of the initial scarring of the Divine Disease, and even have made their shapely, supple breasts all the more bountiful and firm. Every bit of fire red hair has been removed from their ash-blessed bodies. Above the mouth, where once nose, eyes, forehead were, the flesh had since sunken into blackened hollows, reaching so deep that even the brain has long since been rotten away by Corprus. But both mistress and tool both see, speak, think, and dream even better than before their flesh could do for them, the Divine Disease steadily freeing them of the limitations of the flesh. All they are left with is just the means to sing, to make music, to propagate the Divine Song of Dagoth Ur across Morrowind.

	Where the Instrument has but a gaping, wide-open hole in her skull that echoes with the music, however, the Ashen Poet has a large, meaty proboscis hanging from what once was a hollow to her as well. A proboscis filled with small holes along the sides and the tip of the almost lip-like end. While the Poet wears only an onyx necklace inscribed with House Dagoth’s mark, the Instrument wears two large silvery bangles in both of her slender, pointed ears. 

	The Poet stands tall before her supplicant. The Instrument slowly slides back across a warmed and rounded rock, planting her hands on its rough surface. Her breath leaves her with barely a sound, as befit someone, something to be played. She spreads her thighs with her mistress’s approach, planting her left foot up against the rock for support. The Poet, in turn, moves up towards her Instrument. Her left hand shoots for the servant’s right hip, squeezing possessively, affectionately at the dark skin of the Ashen Zombie. The Ghoul slowly inches ever closer towards her servant, the ash-gray proboscis stretching out from her face towards the other woman’s darker jawline. Lighter gray flesh moves over darker blueish gray, caressing across the halfway parted lips of the darker once-Dunmer. The kiss of the proboscis with the actual lips of the servile creature causes the dominant monstrous woman to let out a low moan, her smile returning.

	The Instrument reaches out with her right arm, pulling her mistress towards her in embrace. Her fingernails draw against the ashen skin and leave faint lines across the Poet’s jugular, down towards her right shoulder. The Poet’s lips open with a light wet smack, allowing her blessed, otherworldly voice to finally break through. The Instrument shivers and stiffens when the other's slender right hand wanders across her heart, over her right breast, tweaking her stiffened pink nipple tenderly. First between the tips of her fingers, the Instrument not daring to allowing herself to make a noise. That hope is shattered when the Poet’s own fingernails streak across the bumpy skin of her areola until she squeezes the nipple harsh enough to illicit the first sound from the servant’s lips.

	Twisting, turning, the Poet tweaks her Instrument until she lets her right hand wander below the darker woman’s breasts, tracing the firm musculature of her stomach, the light dip of her navel. Her fingertips dance across the swell of the Instrument’s pubic mound, splitting two fingers across each side of the attendant’s swollen outer labiae. The naked slave whimpers weakly at the sensation of the Ashen Poet’s fingers upon her nether lips, twisting her lower body, tensing towards the Ashen Ghoul exploring her moistening sex.

	The Instrument’s skin feels as if lit on fire under every touch of her musician. The slimy tip of the Poet’s organ spilling from what used to be her face slowly caresses along the sunken flesh of the Instrument’s own destroyed and remade visage. The Poet’s breath flows from that monstrous snout into the warmth of the darker once-Dunmer’s head, a low, atonal hum slowly filling the cavity and reverberating through the Instrument’s hollowed skull. The darker blighted woman allows her lips to purse and part, the sound filling her mouth, her throat, filling her with the song of the Divine. The proboscis slowly slithers and caresses further inwards of the musician's willing tool and servant, planting halting kisses through the continued hum leaving the trunk and the holes at its sides the Poet makes, the lips at the tip’s end kissing against the very back of that sensitive hole.

	When the Poet finally presses one slender middle finger into the Instrument’s slick quim does the darker Ashen Zombie finally cry out, her voice joining the otherworldly tone filling her head, her throat, her very essence. The musician’s note grows louder and grows steady, finding a deep pitch to continue at. She presses her muscular musical organ against the servant’s inner skull, lightly canting the sighing, crying woman towards her own smiling face. The hapless slave’s walls involuntarily clamp and twitch around her owner’ digit, which quickly draws back against her flesh and flicks against her rim. Immediately, her mistress draws her pointed digit into the slave’s heated puss, filling the weeping little slit to the knuckle. The fingertip draws upwards into pliant, spongy flesh, immediately causing the mistress' tool to cry out in a different way that only makes the Divine music spilling through her head and her throat play out differently into the cavern chamber.

	The Instrument rolls her hips towards the Poet, her fingernails actually digging into the ashen gray skin of the blighted monstrous woman. She clenches and pushes well to the point of drawing blood, but the musician is unmoved, not feeling the pain. The Poet inhales through her mouth steadily, the musical tone unfaltering while her fingers dip into the Instrument with practiced mastery. Every arch of those slender fingers within the tensing, prone woman’s oozing cunt has the servant moaning out her joy for the Divine, for her musician, in succinct and unique ways, altering the pitch, the warble, the tiniest alterations to the otherworldly sound filling her.

	The Poet draws herself to press upon the Instrument’s right leg, grinding herself onto the darker woman’s thigh. Her right hand freed at last, she lets her fingers wander up the shivering woman’s spine, cupping her, catching the back of her head into her palm as that meaty proboscis absolutely lathers the inside of the Zombie’s hollowed skull with kisses innumerable. The Ashen Ghoul lets her fingers touch the firm bangles hanging from the supplicant’s right ear, earning another new way in which her voice cracks and breaks into new moans, slowly tweaking, caressing, squeezing the ear until the servant is almost unable to cry out any more for fear of running out of breath. Every ministration upon the Instrument a carefully practiced motion to play her.

	The Instrument’s weeping slit sops and squishes noisily to the fingering motions of her mistress. Her muscular leg tenses against her mistress when she slowly slides herself across the supplicant’s bare thigh, and back down almost to the edge of her knee. She can only offer so much back to her musician, her leg twitching and bumping up to meet the Poet’s pussy, grinding up into her sensitive lips and feeling her arousal paint her own dark blue hide almost black.

	The Poet twists her fingers around the Instrument’s right ear, making the once-Dunmer squeal and squeak amidst the tones echoing through her body, through the cavern room. And with the Poet sliding in two of her left hand’s slickened fingers into the Instrument’s drooling little quim, soon the entirety of Missamsi. The cavern fills with staccato moans inhuman and glorious, adding to the Divine song filling the head of every Dunmeri man and woman within. The carefully shaved and carved walls reverberate with the beautiful music the Instrument is wailing out to her Poet’s ministrations, filling the unrelenting howls of the ash storm heading down the slopes and planes from Red Mountain with the siren’s song of pleasure, of love sublime and true divinity.

	Oh how the Instrument wails and cries, her voice rising and rising and rising towards her peak. And cruel mistress musician, the Poet’s own fevered motions slow to a crawl, her fingers leaving that slick, open puss to caress her mound, her twitching little slit. The Ashen Ghoul’s thighs clamp around the Zombie’s right leg, her own grinding slowing to a crawl. The deep tone continues unabated while the supplicant is left to regain her bearings, denied the peak. The haunting song almost takes on a sad, longing tone as the Instrument purses her lips and mouth in begging and pleading, her throat swallowing and contracting. The music draws upon the winds outside, calling to every dreaming Dunmer with longing and pleading tones in their uneasy slumbers with portato whimpers.

	With that, the Poet breaks her yearning Instrument’s fermata, and presses herself up into the blighted woman’s body, their breasts pressing, mashing together in unbridled desire. Hard nipples press inwards into their breasts and tweak under the grinding motions of their sweatened, naked bodies moving against one another. The slender tip of the musician’s proboscis in the Instrument’s skull tenses once more along the edges of the otherwise very much empty skull, until the thrumming organ almost fills her with flesh and sound alike. The Poet’s warm, soft lips suck and nip at the Instrument’s quivering lower lip and chin. The slick proboscis mashes and presses into the curves of the inside of the lesser’s skull in an absolutely obscene approximation of sex.

	The Instrument bucks herself back into her Poet, her voice and moans faltering and leaving her with little hitches matching every time the mistress presses her fingertips and fingernails into her slave's most sensitive flesh. The servant sucks her breath sharply inwards when the Poet even uses the flat of her thumb’s base against the swell of her clitoris. The Poet’s palm grinds and presses into that pink little pearl, adding more random little lilts to the Divine music spilling forth from the Instrument’s lips. The lighter-skinned Ashen Ghoul presses down harshly on the twitching limb of her willing tool, rubbing herself closer towards their joined crescendo and finale.

	The Poet’s own voice, her actual throat’s voice, joins the mounting bellowing from her own trunk echoing through her Instrument and the very cavern. Their breaths blow across one another, the two women panting and moaning into one another’s parted mouths. When the musician actually splits her slave with three fingers, the darker blighted elf tenses her thighs together and traps the Poet’s hand between her legs. Their rising cries can barely be heard over the thrum and the sheer Divine wind coming from the Instrument. And then, with the music slowly fading when the Poet’s breath finally falters, the two Ashen once-Dunmer close lips with one another, the thick trunk filling the Instrument’s whole head. Their last notes fill each other’s throats, bodies, hearts and souls as they drink in each other’s boundless love, their Divine music spilling into one another. Tongues hungrily mash against and curl around each other in their last shared moans. 

	The Instrument is the first to spill her joy across the Poet’s fingers. Thick, sticky ejaculate shoots from just under the moaning servant’s pearl from her urethra across the musician’s palm and over her skilled digits. The tart juices of her cunt continue to spill even as the mistress continues to unabashedly finger fuck the slave until the Ashen Ghoul herself tenses and twitches just against the knee of the Zombie. She pushes up into the shivering musician with her knee until the lighter-skinned woman collapses on top of the Instrument, leaving her leg absolutely damp.

	Their lips dislodge, if only to draw breath. Poet and Instrument pant and breathe towards one another, with only their heads joined together by the monstrous proboscis still filling the Instrument’s head, its heat and mass making her everything feel as if swimming in pure pleasure.

	The winds’ long howl dies down, the voice of Red Mountain not carrying enough strength anymore for a second performance from the two Ashen creatures. But the two kiss once more, passionately clamping their limbs around one another possessively. Even if none of the unbelievers could hear their call, they still can make the most beautiful music together.