Claiming: A Drow Rite

Disclaimer: As with all Fanfiction it's a byproduct of someone else. DnD (Dungeons and Dragons) is a product of TSR, now WotC (Wizards of the Coast), the setting in this story belongs to WotC as a part of their universe, the named characters of this story are my own creation. I am not making any money from this; this is for my own love of writing and of the game.

This story is actually a spin-off from a larger novel in works, but it stands on its own. Æiristus and Duilliath are original characters I created for the Advanced Dungeons and Dragons™ game for the World of Greyhawk™ fantasy setting.

A couple items of note: This piece is a sexy story. In my “world” all full-blooded female elves do not have pubic hair, male elves have some (but not on the very nether region), and anal intercourse is taken very seriously among the drow (only) as a means of social control called “claiming”. Here, drow do not “marry” they “claim”, even when trading House members for social climbing. “Claiming” is one way that a male can “get back” in a bit of social irony at a female drow for her cruelty, but it’s risky. No, it doesn’t have to be a one-time act (unless he gets killed in the process); it depends on the male’s personal fortitude and how lucky he feels when he wants it. Male-on-male does not spark the instinctual “kill” signal as it does with the female, the goddess did not intend for it to—there is no irony there; but M/M is not addressed here. Would a female try it with another female? Again, not addressed here, but the possibilities boggle the mind. The idea sparked from the mating rituals of some black widow spider species, where the male must “jump” the female if he wants her and hangs on for the ride, hoping she doesn’t kill him in the process, and usually lives fairly comfortably off of his female counterpart’s prey as her companion afterward. Oh crap, you learned something. :-)

On to the story…

***

Story Foreword: Æiristus is sent on a mission by her temple to investigate the possibility of the existence of a drow city legendary even to the drow called DarkHaven and a race of rhys-elves supposedly long extinct (Note: Greyhawk never published rhys-elves). She was tasked to either bring back proof of existence or to disprove it/them. Her mission was interrupted.

***********************Story***********************


Claiming: A Drow Rite


Typically, she was just another stipend and that was how Duilliath approached the task. She was a target. Another church investment gone sour. Where the temple hunters failed, he and those of his brotherhood were summoned into action.

What caught his interest in this dispatch was that his objective was a temple hunter, a templar—a member of the elite. Kept under rigid control themselves and reporting directly to a small security council of the clergy’s own elite, the templars were the church’s division of extreme doctrine enforcement. Only the best of those were trained to work alone in search and retrieval actions against heretics considered dangerous dissidents who flee in their desperation. Where others of her kind brought back heads, this templar had carved a name for herself by bringing offenders back alive for conviction and punishment, a practice that she made her specialty. She frequently emerged to the Surface World or captured her own objectives just before they emerged themselves. She also kept her blade and hand-to-hand skills honed by devoting her free time to fighting as a tenant in neighboring arenas.

Duilliath was no fool he saw the challenge ahead.

As names and affiliations meant nothing to Duilliath’s order. Their collective accomplishments and centuries of discretion and anonymity were the reasons their services were engaged, especially by upper stratum members of dark-elven society. Names ordinarily did not matter to him either, but when Duilliath learned that this target was also a member of a merchant-mercenary house that swore allegiance to his own noble house he made certain the job became his alone. The objective’s personal name was Æiristus Vrynn, an immediate member of clan Vrynn. Either the denizens of the church were taking pleasure in their affinity for irony, or one of his house’s supporters had gone rogue. Occasionally, templars who spent too much time TopSide would also fall accused of trying to defect to the Surface World for various reasons. These became targets of forced retirement and, once the brotherhood was contracted, any senior member had the right to declare the hunt as his for his own reputation. This time it was in Duilliath’s family’s best interest to investigate the problem.

As part of his practice—and his art—Duilliath researched his objectives; this one had a chequered history with church and clan. As an adolescent Vrynn was ostracized from the seminary, as well as from the mage’s academy, for willfulness and failure to progress—which he found coincided with a disappearance rumor and a near-fatal accident barely a season before she fell out of favor with the schools. Not many young people had the fortitude or mental discipline to be able to attend both schools simultaneously. Duilliath knew the demands had to have been near unbearable; a suicide attempt was not an unreasonable conclusion. Consequently, he learned that her clan had also disowned her for the embarrassment her excommunication and expulsion had brought. She left her home and in a few short years she became a celebrity in the arenas, for which the church later recalled her to duty to serve in their warrior caste in preparation for later utilizing her as a hunter. Her martial arts ability was reputed to be skillful—regardless that she had a tendency to grow overly enthusiastic with swords and often snapped what was in her hands at the time. Her hand-to-hand expertise was fast, precise, and often fatal. After a moment’s thought, he wondered if the hand-to-hand had something to do with the broken weapons as a means of psychological attack upon her opponents. Having survived multiple suicide squad missions the church sent her on, her survival skills proved remarkable, both underground and TopSide. Though Duilliath had not enjoyed the opportunity to witness the female in action, he took the consistent reports of the residents of the arena where she spent her time as a tenant as reliable. Most people eagerly admitted to betting on her when she entered the arena for mêlée. It was reputed that the woman was well on her way to earning a gold belt in her favorite arena for two hundred kills.

Mêlée and hand-to-hand: neither of these were Duilliath’s strengths. If this one brought him down alive during an attack it was certain she would see the irony in dragging him back to the church as a prisoner, and do just that. He needed to focus on her weaknesses. It was said she was hot-tempered and proud, females were. Pride would be the easier weakness to exploit. One did not achieve her stature in their society, after having suffered a critical wound to the pride, and not show-up her critics, especially with the history she had.

****

The news began as a rattle at the docks, a gossip. Then, as the pace picked up and confirmation eventually wound its way through the streets, Duilliath could hardly believe what he heard. The Banon Pride, the ship she was on, had been pirated and sunk. Chances were the crew and passengers had met with cruel fates. Chances were, from what he had learned of her, Duilliath mused, that with a woman like Vrynn around almost anything could have happened. He opted to wait out further incoming ships for a while, a week or a month perhaps, for the possibility the female might yet show regardless of the Banon Pride’s demise. In the meanwhile, rather than continuing to skulk around during the night like a rat, he intended to mingle with the local inhabitants. But his white hair and night-black flesh made him an oddity, so rather than isolate himself socially from the townsfolk he donned desert garb and went about making an ally or two in case his plans for Æiristus Vrynn did not go well.

****

Two days later, as Duilliath exited a dry-goods store on the docks, he saw a ship painted in vibrant hues of gold and red draw in to the harbor. Its long streamer-like banners snapped sharply in the wind. Oars bristled from its sides and smacked into and turned up out of the blue-green water. Not far away from the dark-elf one of the piers prepared for the ship’s docking. Duilliath pulled an apple from his robes and settled against a crate on the docks to watch.

As the ship settled next to its pier, men moved around on deck hustling chained individuals up from below. Another slaver ship, the drow realized. In the seven days and nights he’d spent here he’d identified what ships were commonly used for what purposes.

Down the wooden plank people in chains were prodded. At least thirty captives staggered from darkness into daylight. There was a fair mix of races represented in the bunch. Duilliath narrowed his gold eyes. At least four men looked out of place. One’s skin was dark-grey in color and he was small in frame, a half-blood dark-elf. Another, a half-elf/half-human with grey hair and a short beard, kept his head discretely—he watched, an alert individual could see that the man made mental notes of his surroundings. The others, both very tall and heavily built humans, whispered to each other, looking for something or someone. As the procession moved, most of them barefoot, down splintery walkways to the dirty streets and toward the old stone gaol that served as a holding pen for the new arrivals, two women were brought out. One woman was pleasant looking with fair skin and flaming red hair, the other was as dark as Duilliath with hair that gleamed silver almost painfully bright in the tropical sunlight. Both women were as scantily clad as the male slaves, in an attempt to rob dignity and strip away any personal sense of identity. And to make more profit from their belongings, Duilliath knew. These people were fortune hunters in a tight spot. And one of them was his target.

Duilliath watched with interest as the females were marched forward. The dark female was hobbled more so than the others; her wrists were bound in front while her elbows were pulled back where they were tied tightly with a short bar behind her. A longer bar and she likely would have used it as a weapon, he mused. As she tossed back her mane to glare at her captors, Duilliath saw she had not been the model captive. Her almost negligible reaction to daylight was remarkable. Regardless of the lack of darkness, her eyes burned brilliant red with fury. A wooden bar was jammed and splintered between her teeth and tied in a leather thong behind her head. The woman’s guard shoved her and backhanded her until she stumbled. He barked at her to settle down. The red-haired girl reached out to catch the dark-elf woman from falling. From the women’s exchanged glances Duilliath could guess they had traveled together for a while. Some evidence that the templar woman had turned renegade.

Another motion Duilliath caught from the corner of his eye was the forced restraint on the part of the half-elven male when the dark female was shoved. He watched. Disapproval and irritation was very evident on the man’s face.

Duilliath finished his apple, tossing the core into the dirty sea water, and made his way to the small crowd watching the newcomers thinking on what to do and how to handle the female who appeared not to have the knack of working or playing well with others. He watched the redheaded human female coaxing co-operation from the dark woman, and failing. He watched the dark female bound helpless, yet resisting and being shoved along amidst the amused guards. He’d seen worse cruelty by his own kind upon his own kind, and he was sure the humans had done worse to her than bounce her along they way they were doing now in the street. He lost sight of her when they entered the old stone gaol.

Duilliath wondered at how much the spirited female would auction for. Women with dispositions like hers sold on two ends of the spectrum: high, if the buyer wanted a fighter, or low, if the town was modest and had no need of the trouble an angry spitfire was sure to bring with her. The town did have a small pit arena, mostly for animal fights and the occasional fisticuffs match, but it lacked the backing of a large town with its ability to support a coliseum-style arena; it did not have the same draw. The townspeople here gave him the impression that they preferred docile servants. After he overheard a comment stating that the dark woman would not even do well in the brothel, he realized that she would most likely be put down like a rabid animal, or hung as a criminal. She was probably lucky she had not been thrown overboard to drown before they reached port.

Letting the town do away with her could be a good thing, if he was interested in letting humans do his job for him. He was not. He had his professional pride. He also had his family’s interest to investigate.

Every day for three more days Duilliath visited the auction block waiting for his target to show up on display, three more days to ponder and plan. When ships and caravans were not making deliveries to the gaol, visitors were allowed to go inside and view the specimens. Duilliath melted in with the parade of gawkers and buyers to get better assessments on the female. He found that she was kept in a cage along with the redheaded human woman and other women. The redhead appeared to have a way of keeping Vrynn’s temper in a fair control, as did the half-elf male. The half-blood drow appeared to have the opposite effect on her—he agitated her. Vrynn had been permitted to have the bar removed from between her teeth. The binding that had pinned her elbows together had also been removed. None of the captives were permitted to have their shackles removed from their wrists or ankles. Shackle-rot was a common problem among the captives.

Food was brought in once a day for all gaol residents. Medical checks were made on the prisoners and any wounds were tended. No one wanted to part with good coin for too sickly a servant.

The more Duilliath saw of the dark female the more he observed her mannerisms and wondered at his present assignment. Spirited though she was, she was not fully beyond control. He saw the reason why the humans decided not to throw her overboard, at least he saw why he would not have thrown her overboard—although she was dirty, she was quite lovely. And, he was sure that in their eyes she must appear exotic. Her silver hair was thick and long, reaching the lower curves of her backside. He saw that she was shorter than most dark-elves were. She stood just barely over the height of a mountain dwarf. The top of her head rose just above the human woman’s shoulders. Her frame was well proportioned and put together with strong lines of muscle giving her the definition of a master metal smith. She carried herself with the confidence of a master-at-arms. Her motions were feline as she paced the cage and challenged visitors with defiant stares at any who looked her way. The males who were delivered as part of her group often advised her to relax, especially the half-elf, as though he assumed some measure of authority over her. When he listened in on the male’s conversations, besides their irritability and trying to figure a way out of their predicament, he learned that she acted as the half-elf’s second-in-command.

More probable evidence against her.

****

Finally, the afternoon came when Duilliath watched as an angry drow female was lead to the block along with a host of other slaves. He reasoned that with so many slaves available today the majority of them would be sold off cheaply. It also made him believe that the local government needed money to finance their current border war.

Duilliath found he was correct in that bidding on the feisty female would be easy. No one here wanted a difficult servant. He had almost no competition. Keeping his haik wrapped snuggly about him and his heavy black veils covering his face, concealing his race and identity, he stepped forward to claim his prize. Æiristus’ eyes were glowing red from her fury and the humiliation forced upon her. She could not, or did not, see through the heavy gauze that covered the eyehole through Duilliath’s dark desert veils. Duilliath hoped that she would not struggle, as her superior strength would cause him problems in getting her to his rented room.

Æiristus snarled and threatened any guard who stood too close as she walked by in her new owner’s custody. She cast a final look at her companions. The humans offered a small, sad wave. The half-elf appeared apologetic; a failed expression on his face made him look older than his years. The half-blood dark-elf male watched silently, his eyes hard. The redheaded human woman watched unhappily as her dark, abrasive companion was led away.

****

Once back at his rented room in the inn, Duilliath locked the door and secured the wooden window shutters before he addressed the woman.

Æiristus stood in the middle of the room and watched her heavily robed new owner. This was not the first time in her life she had been purchased from a slave block and faced a man who fancied himself her owner. But this time she was not outnumbered either. The world TopSide was replete with petty kingdoms at war and their slave blocks sponsoring their little wars. Slave hunters were always looking for victims to sell, and the more exotic the better. And a dark-skinned elf female with silver hair was rare and highly prized.

The muscles in her arms and back twitched anxiously, anxiously awaiting the chance to spring and attack. She was sore from the bruises and the damage dealt her from the rough treatment in the last weeks. Some of the spasming was from pain and some from tension. She planned on getting back with her companions as soon as possible and continuing with her mission. She had no time to spare. The time wasted in the belly of the pirate ship was too long. And three extra days in a gaol was inexcusable, but that blasted half-elf insisted it would be easier to escape new owners than escape a whole town guard.

Finally, as the ambient light dimmed with the closing of the shutters, the heavily robed man lit a single candle and turned to face her.

“Æiristus Vrynn,” he said, removing the manacles from around her wrists. “I am here to kill you.”

Æiristus stepped back, stunned that the stranger informed her of his heinous intention in her native tongue and astonished that he knew her name. Her white eyebrows narrowed, closing the gap of an old, angry scar that crossed over four inches of the center of her face. Wide green eyes, cooled from any previous reddened fury, gazed upon the black-robed man in suspicion. Her legs crouched slightly of their own accord from so many years of training having long ago become instinct. Her hands readied to move defensively. “How is it you know me?” she demanded in kind. “And what quarrel have I with you?”

“We have no quarrel.” He was amused by her complete lack of submissiveness and respect. Indeed, with her abrupt stance of self-defense.

“I differ,” she countered. “I have no wish to …”

“Nor do I.” Duilliath slid the heavy turban and veils from his head revealing himself to her.

Æiristus green eyes widened unbelieving of what she saw. A dark-elven male was enough to alert her, but this male she recognized, she remembered seeing him in procession years and years—decades ago. “Prince Duilliath?” she gaped, then quickly remembered her place and bowed her head. “M-my prince, what are you doing here? What are you doing so far from home? What are you doing TopSide?”

Duilliath chuckled. “So, station does mean something to you after all, does it?”

“My humblest apologies, Prince Duilliath,” she offered sincerely fully expecting to be backhanded to the floor and beaten senseless for her lack of respect.

“Just, Duilliath, revered templar,” he bade her. “And, as I said, I was sent here to kill you.”

She blinked and looked back up at him. Her lips were parted ready to ask her question, but nothing came out.

Æiristus stared in continued disbelief as Duilliath slid off his outer robe, the dark haik, and draped it over the back of a chair. She swallowed, forcing her mouth to close. The House Prince was uncomfortably more striking now that she saw him up close than she recalled from pageant. Underneath the robe he wore black pants that hugged his hips and thighs, and a loose-fitting, fine embroidered black shirt, held closed with dark gold and maroon stays. The shirt he tucked into a matched wide brocade belt around his narrow waist. His medallion of tiny crossed gleaming daggers winked at her in the candlelight as it swung freely around his dark throat. Glossy black boots snugged up to his knees and short black gloves gave him the appearance of a dark buccaneer. His long, stark white, wavy hair that fell to his shoulder blades, although neatly combed, gave him an even more untamed appearance. His dark face was finely hewn, with lines belonging more to a garden statue. No vicious hand had ever marred the flawless raven skin. This one was raised with the intention of elevating his House’s social position. He was knee-buckling gorgeous.

“Uhm. Why? Why is it you want to kill me?” Æiristus managed, finding her confidence suddenly, awkwardly absent. “With you here, I— I should be protecting you.”

“I was appointed to find you and retire you in a formal order intended to protect our kind from acts of sedition,” he informed her.

“Sedition? You were hired? Like me? Like what I do?”

“Not quite. When your kind go bad, they contract us.”

“They? You mean the church? They think I have gone renegade?” Æiristus stumbled back, abruptly dizzy and sick. “Oh, goddess, they think I’ve gone heretic!” All of a sudden a bee swarm of nightmares and dread churned up in her mind. A role reversal of the worst kind roared up at her like an enraged black predator. Her superiors had assigned a male, a house prince—her house prince—to rein her in as an alleged dissident. And they most likely expected her to run. Hence, their reason to have her killed instead of sending another templar after her to bring her back.

She had to sit down.

Without thinking, Duilliath reached and gripped the woman’s upper arms to keep her from falling. The muscle there, though no longer tensed, was like living iron. Cords flexed and slid beneath smooth skin. There was no doubt in Duilliath’s mind that if those arms were to move against him in full fury they would easily snap his neck. Being this close to a templar made him appreciate that he did not have to hunt them down more often.

Æiristus found herself seated on a bed she had barely noticed when they first entered the room. She was dazed. “I warranted an assassin? How? What happened? I am on assignment. The church sent me on assignment. What are they thinking? Have I been out that long?”

“Calm.” Duilliath sat beside her. In the back of his mind he wondered who her unlucky target was. Templars came dangerously close to martyrdom when killed in the line of duty. This job had to be kept quiet. Which meant before he could complete the task he had to get her far away from those she knew, especially the half-blood. He was relieved that she trusted him enough on recognition of who he was that she fell so easily to his advantage. “I’ve been watching you,” he told her.

“I did nothing— I cannot— This is all wrong!” Her ferocity was shaken with her realization of her situation. She was visibly bewildered.

“Relax. Calm down.”

Æiristus shot to her feet. “I’m loyal!”

“I know.”

“But you are going to try and kill me now.”

“I was,” he admitted taking note of her usage of the word ‘try’ in her statement. “You’ve already been subject to two stages of a three-stage poison, my dear. Presently, I am leaning against finishing the job.”

“The candle and the gloves,” she noted quietly.

“Very good,” Duilliath said, impressed with her assessment. “Your alchemy lessons have served you well.”

“I also know that any number of means may be utilized as the third carrier,” she told him almost too quickly, feeling her self-confidence, and the itch of suspicion, returning. At the same time, ghost faces of men and women she had hunted down in her life whispered at her. How many of those accused of subversion were wrongly charged? How many pleas for mercy had she ignored? “Alchemy lessons have nothing to do with what I know about poison delivery.”

Sensing her misgivings Duilliath took a gentle hold of her hand and pulled her back down to sit next to him. She was beginning to ignore the charm. “Listen, we have the same house allegiance, you and I. We share the same political interest remember? So, before we discuss business any further I think we should bathe and have dinner. Do you have any preferences?”

Bathe? she wondered dimly. Her mind was awhirl of both realized and imagined betrayal. How far could she trust a man who was both an assassin sent to kill her and, that same man, be of the house she swore her fealty to a lifetime ago? Was he only being amiable with her to lull her into lowering her guard? Poison oils in bathwater or tainted food would kill her, finishing the job, if what he told her about the first two stages having already been applied was even truth. It was a reasonable assumption, she knew; dizziness and nausea were indeed troubling her as they spoke. He could kill her in her sleep. By right of their differing stations he could openly kill her. She looked into a pair of soft, tawny eyes that appeared to be gazing back at her with warmth and genuine interest. How effective of an assassin was he? Would she have to kill her liege-lord in self-defense? Could she do it? At the very least, if word got back, an act like that would alienate her from her pledged house and more hunters would hound her. Would she be compelled to take her house prince as an escort with her in death? If the house she swore loyalty to wanted her dead, did they not have every right to end her life as they saw fit? The priests who hired him would be reveling in her dilemma right now. Was it the priests’ plan to be rid of them both all along? I have been out too long.

“Uhm, dinner? I do not understand.” She struggled with not over-thinking her situation.

“Yes, dinner. I’m hungry and believe me we both need a bath. Look, I find that I’m really not interested in killing you. It’s clearly a misunderstanding, or more likely some form of political maneuvering. Perhaps it was even a completely different group of priests who contacted my guild than the ones who sent you on assignment. Splinter opportunists perhaps. As I said before, I’ve been watching you since you’ve arrived. Although you’ve displayed some debatable mannerisms since your arrival, I hardly witnessed the behavior of a heretic. That, and the church needs to remember who’s allied with whom before they hire someone to do their dirty work for them.”

Æiristus’ mind was numb. She knew that only one group of priests had the authority to contract hunters to collect rogue templars. Anything could have happened. With his suggestion of splinter opportunists it was possible that he truly did not know the procedure. Imposters could have contacted his guild hiring them under false pretenses to get her out of the way for some scheme. Or, he was outright lying to her.

“I’ll be right back,” Duilliath told her and patted her leg assuming a great deal of familiarity with her. “I am going to order that bath.”

She watched as he rose and left the room. She did not hear the click of a door lock as she half-expected. What is going on? Æiristus wondered. It was several moments before she walked silently toward the door and tried the handle. It turned without resistance and the door opened. Looking through the opening she saw a dim corridor and no one there. If she wanted to she could easily leave. Was it a test? She decided, probably not, and closed it going back into the room. Why was Prince Duilliath way out here, so far from home? Could he have really been hired to kill her? Why was someone from the very house she was sworn to protect hired to kill her? Duilliath was an assassin? When did that happen?

Deciding her thoughts were only leading her in circles, she moved toward one of the bags the prince brought with him during his travels. Satchels and baggage of fine materials filled with resplendent clothing and toiletries dazzled her. “Damn,” she whispered in amazement. Elaborately decorated brushes and combs, fancy bottles and jars of colored and etched glass, embroidered wraps, brocade robes and vests of materials she had only seen in the noble circles filled the bags before her.

“The money’s in the blue one,” Duilliath told her as he entered the room.

Æiristus looked up at him. “You are a thief’s dream. Do you know this?”

Duilliath smiled and closed the door. “It’s not beyond me to let a thief take his fill and then track him for sport. Besides, if you were a thief you’d have already nabbed your bounty and been away. Oh! The bath stuff. Grab that, would you? They’re preparing the bath in the building around the corner. We can go now.” He stepped over to one of the bags that Æiristus had looked through earlier and pulled out a bathrobe. “Let’s go,” he invited and draped the dark violet silk robe over her shoulders.

Shaking her head over the extravagance of his traveling gear, Æiristus allowed the robe he gave her that was obviously one of his extras. His presence made her uncomfortable again with his closeness.

“Sorry, I don’t have any shoes for you,” he told her. “We’ll be going to the public bathhouse and it’s a little dirty out there. You can borrow my shoes if you like.”

“They’re probably too big for me,” she replied not sure of what else to say.

“That’s all right. It’s just down the street. We’ll soon get you some of your own. No one’s going to accept you looking like that for dinner. By the time we get done shopping it’ll be dinner time anyway.” They began their short trek to the bathhouse.

“Who are you and why are you being so nice to me?” Æiristus wondered. At his expression she flushed almost the color of the robe she wore, “Did I say that aloud?”

“Yes, you did.” He smiled. “Your being a member of a lesser-allied house, you should understand that it would reflect poorly upon me and my house to have a shabby-looking servant. It’s a simple matter of image management, it’s what the public expects,” he told her.

“Really?”

“Which part?”

“All of it. Are you serious?”

“Uhm. Yes, you’re a servant. The rest is drivel. There it is.”

They stepped into a wooden building that almost everything about was easily forgotten. “It’s really bad,” Duilliath said wrinkling his nose at the place. “It’s more of a converted pub by the smell of it. I’m sure enough bath oils will cover most of the unpleasantness.” He looked to the hostess, “Do you have a masseuse? No? How utterly wretched. My private room, please.”

What a talkabout, Æiristus thought. Not the expected behavior of an assassin. He was awfully chatty for a noble, she noted. Looking around, she did not see any wretchedness about the place or any real reason Prince Duilliath should be disappointed with it. It was a bathhouse. Admittedly, not the greatest, but it was definitely not the worst she had been in before. Having recently been sloshed about with freezing cold, muddy water from buckets while sprawled on a floor of moldering straw, old urine, and more mud and daring to call it “medical attention” was among the worst that came to mind. The room they were led to was large enough to support four or six people with its metal tub and its steaming water. Duilliath continued his meaningless rant about pitiful accommodations as she left her robe on a peg, walked over and dipped her hand in the water and splashed it on her face. It felt good, like the hot springs back home.

As Duilliath poured some of his preferred oils into the water Æiristus heard a splash when she removed and dropped the dirty strip of cloth around her waist that had served as a loincloth. “Prince Duilliath, are you all right?” she asked.

Duilliath had dropped one of his oil bottles in the water and was staring. “Oh, uh. How—” he began as he gazed at her completely naked body. It had taken him four full seasons to catch up to her. Four seasons TopSide. And here she stood naked and beautiful. “How old are you, exactly?”

“A century and five,” she answered. “Why?” She drew warm water along her arms. Some of it splashed her well-muscled torso and rolled downward along sleek lines.

“That young?” he cleared his throat, he was still slightly bent over the tub. He straightened something at just below waist-level. Drow women often wandered the homeland scantily clad and watching this one in her previous state, though not completely unmoving, he had been preoccupied with paying more attention to her actions and learning about her as a subject.

Æiristus sensed he was not being entirely open with her, that his questions were conversational misdirection. “I assure you,” she insisted, “I have been of age for well over half my life now.” At his perplexed expression she added, “Do you think the church would send an adolescent after desperate criminals the way the send me and other templar soldiers?”

“Uh, no. You’re right,” he straightened retrieving the bottle from the water, now empty of its oil and partially filled with scented water. “How stupid of me. No, they wouldn’t.”

Duilliath plucked the bottle from the water, emptied it, and set it aside next to an array of toiletries. He heard her reaching into the water again gently splashing more water onto her dark skin. With her loincloth removed and the warm water striking her skin more and more, her feminine scent was more perceptible, and blending with the humidity of the bath it was getting into his head. Did she know this? She had to. She was female. Waving his hand in a gesture to get her to come back around and closer, he asked her, “How long have you been TopSide now?”

Æiristus sidestepped the tub and did as she was bid by his gesture. “Too long if they sent you.”

Duilliath’s loins itched and prickled. It was difficult not to fixate his eyes on the woman’s bare crotch, now glistening with bathwater where she’d let it roll down. Her scent was making him lose track of his thoughts. It had been over a year since he had contact with a member of his own race, let alone a female. How this girl managed lengthy missions …

“Prince Duilliath?”

“Hm-m? What?”

“I said does my age trouble you?”

Duilliath shook his head. “No, no. It’s not your age.” He shrugged off the unfamiliar feeling of being caught off-balance and found himself warming to her, thickening, hardening, feeling a familiar giddiness. Although nearly two centuries separated them in age, he smiled down on her now as though she had been with him most of his life. “I just never expected to find you so . . . ” he reached out to take her arm and pulled her toward him, to feel her against him.

Æiristus, still a little wary by events and admissions made in Duilliath’s rented room earlier, resisted enough that her feet skidded just before she bumped bodily against the prince/assassin. He was taller than she by almost a head. He was strong, but she knew he was not physically stronger than she. Had she not recognized who this man was she would have never let him manage to get so close to her, owner or not. Had she been her own person she would have lashed out at him and he would be picking himself up off of the floor as many times as it took until he stayed down. She knew lust when she saw it. She felt his hardness against her pressing through his robe. But this was no real stranger she faced; he was no mere man. He was her prince, who by a twist of fate owned her in more ways than one. He was also so easy to look upon that keeping her own senses clear was difficult.

Duilliath brought his hand to the side of Æiristus’ head filling his palm with the softness of her hair, dirty though it was. Drawing his hand around to her cheek he felt her fighting to control her breath. She was trembling. She felt good against him. Gently, he drew his thumb along the side of her face and then, with the tip of his finger, he drew down along the mark of her scar across her face, splitting her face almost in half, marveling at it. Marveling at the survival instinct behind it. “Perfect,” he murmured.

Between her bare abdomen and his still-robed body, Æiristus felt her own heat rising, flushing her face and chest and shoulders, pooling low and churning deep within her. Duilliath throbbed against her as his body hardened. Panic vied for control in her mind and emotions. But it was not the fearful kind of panic she knew back in the inn’s room, this was nervous energy building. She had not been with a man for a while. This one was handsome. He was dangerous. He was powerful. He was her noble prince, and wanted her! He did not balk at her scarred face—he was the first. Her blood surged in her veins as the man before her touched her and bent to kiss her. The thought of this being the kiss of death for her rattled around in the back of her uncooperative mind.

“And you are truly mine,” Duilliath murmured. His lips were nearly touching hers.

“Twice over,” she replied against his soft mouth. Where are you going with this, Æiristus? She felt her self-control wavering. Too close.

Duilliath pulled back with a puzzled look. “Twice?”

“Yes. I am sworn to your family, to you. And from the auction,” she told him, feeling like a blithering idiot all of a sudden. She could not stop the words from leaving her mouth. “Even without the auction being what it was, my service is yours and your noble house.”

Not for what I want, Duilliath’s treacherous mind responded. His whole body shuddered. This was dangerous, he realized. She was a champion of the church. She was a defender of his house. She could easily do him harm. It was a bad idea, he told himself. Wanting her this badly was a very bad idea. He had just met her and she was bewitching him. He ducked his head away, scolding himself as he fought for some level of mental control. He bit hard into his lower lip as when he turned his hand brushed lightly against that bare crotch that had so effortlessly captivated him. He felt her shiver and stiffen at his touch. So soft! “Get in the water.”

She nodded and went. Her face and ears heated from her sudden flush of fervor. If this was it for her, she forced herself to reason, it would be a good time to go. The thought of being drowned mocked her as she stepped into the water.

Duilliath near stumbled to the table with his bath goods. Holding himself up with straining arms his mind was awhirl with the notion of owning the woman, killing her, and of having her. She was far more powerful an allure than he imagined. Her words were sincere. Her reactions were honest. She did not try to flee when he gave her the chance. It was baffling; the female was beautiful, even with—especially with—the scar. Her feminine scent, in the air and now on his hand, was so potent he was losing his mind to it. She was young, almost two centuries younger than he. Her body was hard with muscle. She was lithe and sinewy, yet her skin was soft to the touch. His mind reeled. He had to have her! Grabbing another bottle he turned toward her. Her green eyes were watching him. “Dunk down,” he managed. “Get your hair wet.”

Æiristus disappeared under the water momentarily and came back up. She moved to where Duilliath was gesturing for her and permitted him to fill her hair with amber scented lather. After weeks on the ship and in the gaol as a prisoner, his pampering was divine—and indulgences were something she normally scorned. Duilliath massaged her scalp and gently worked his fingers through her soapy hair. She felt his fingers slide gently up along the front slant of her ears and down the back. He rubbed the muscles of her neck, relaxing her. Beneath the sweet amber were the deeper notes of Duilliath’s own scent beckoning to her.

“One more time,” he whispered next to her ear, this time he assisted in rinsing the lather from her hair. Tremors shook through his body again at the thought of having her. His resolve was faltering. Her soft skin was slick with water and lather. His hand clenched on the back of her neck and, fearful that should he lose himself she would drown, he reached in with his other hand and pulled her back up. Her face and hair were soaking wet when she re-emerged and Duilliath took the opportunity to steal a kiss from that dark, glistening face. Never had a drow woman been so beautiful. Soft, wet and warm lips met his and, after a jolt of surprise, kissed him back.

Liquid flame shot through Æiristus where Duilliath touched her. At first feeling his hand tighten on her nape while she was underwater unnerved her. But then he pushed his arm into the water and cupping her breast he had gently pulled her up out of the water. Then with animal speed and strength, he wrapped both arms around her and crushed her wet body against his. His impulsive kiss sought to take the breath from her. Her wet breasts slid against his bare chest as his robe had fallen completely open in front.

Duilliath groaned into Æiristus’ mouth from his unexpected overwhelming urge. A male possessed, he ravished the warrior woman’s sodden curves, manhandling her firm bath-slick breasts like a fiery lover who had been away from his mate for far too long. As she moaned and growled passionately in return, Duilliath’s need roiled and swelled within him, a beast roaring for release. The more she responded favorably the more insistent his beast grew. He was no man, nor was he elf. He was drow. He was on fire for another drow and his desire was perilously blinding him.

Any dread Æiristus had of being executed faded as her body clenched anticipating Duilliath’s moves. Sliding wet along his warm flesh, he had triggered her passion and it was growing, choking out reason. It was an ocean swell snatching tiny treasures from the beach and pulling them into itself, each new swell bigger and greedier than the last. She seized both sides of Duilliath’s head and feasted on the hungry mouth that sought hers. She growled as a pair of strong hands pressed firmly down along the curve of her back, dipped into the water and squeezed the swell of her ass, bringing her in closer to danger.

This is insane, Æiristus, she barely heard her mind screaming at her. This man admitted he was there to kill you! Her animal instincts snapped and snarled like a rabid wolf at her voice of reason. Just let him try and kill her! What better way to die?

“I have got to have you!” Duilliath pressed breathless against Æiristus’ mouth.

“Yes!” she hissed not realizing the panting in her own voice.

“Now!” he growled grasping her tightly to him and lifting her from the water. He swung her around easily and laid her on a pile of towels nearby and pushed her into them with his greedy kisses. Prying a knee between her thighs he easily parted her dark legs and covered her silky-smooth, wet feminine mound with his entire hand. It was a small, warm pillow that fit naturally into the palm of his hand. Seeking her creamy heat, Duilliath slid a finger inside her, exploring the hot silk of her sex within. A second followed the first, stroking, teasing, calling out her inner animal.

Fire flowed molten through Æiristus’ veins. Need consumed her. The assassin holding her, pressing down on her, teasing her was just a man. His eyes burned with desire, just as her own did. So close he came to taking her to climax with only his fingers. So close he came with teasing her that she nearly seized the dominating role away from him. She could have done so with no difficulty, as such was the way of their race. Even so, with the strength of her instincts raging at her, Duilliath was the first of their race to lay with her. She was not going to let him know that. This was new. This was exciting. This was something she needed to experience for herself. Duilliath’s scent amazed her. His touch crazed her. Reckless abandon called to her.

Duilliath pressed a heavy hand to the center of Æiristus’ chest intentionally pinning her down. In her state of mind and raging hormones she was as dangerous to him as a leopard on the hunt. He surprised himself that he managed to retain the level of mental control he had. It was not his intention to slip into the mating rage with its possible outcome of his claiming her as mate—or his more probable grisly death. Far from it. But the female was intoxicating. It was as if she was made for him alone. Her scent, stronger now, pulled mercilessly at him. He knew that the moment he lost himself completely to his own unbridled inner beast that would be the moment this one would kill him—or she would try. She would literally shred his body to pieces, tapping into an insane reservoir of strength and savagery, leaving bloody hunks of his flesh as meat for scavengers. The image of outwitting such a fate was a chilling thrill in its own right.

His eyes moved down the length of her body, drinking in the sight of her. She was so soft, and warm, and receptive. She was not teasing. Not playing at politics. Not domineering. Primeval impulses screamed to take over, to roll the female over onto her stomach, to dominate her, to pin her and claim her. Duilliath knew that so many bad things had happened to her that day, that week, and he did not care. The amber scent of the oils he had poured in the water mingled with the dizzying scent of her aroused state. He pressed her legs open wider and slowly lowered his face to her groin. His face brushed against hard abdomen muscles that rose and fell with her ragged breathing. He kissed and nuzzled his way down to her the low, bare pillows of her pussy taking pleasure in the feeling of the heat rising from her. His cheek pushed against the soft mound at the cleft of her thighs. His tongue slid across velvet. He luxuriated along the swollen lips of her opening and tasted the warm heavy cream that lubricated her entrance. He gasped softly at the taste of her and paused to catch his breath.

Æiristus panted, shuddering like a woman suffering. She stiffened. She throbbed maddeningly where Duilliath touched his tongue to her. Her body arched. Her legs spread wider in delicious reflex begging the drow male to continue. She wound her fingers into his hair, pulling and kneading as the frenzy built inside her. In moments he was licking and kissing her again, and then he drove his tongue inside her. “Yes!” she cried shoving her head back as waves of ecstasy rocked her.

Prolonged efforts in overriding the urge were getting impossible for either of them to ignore.

Duilliath knew the woman’s sexual and survival instincts were taking over inside her too quickly. Things could get deadly. He crept up along her shivering, panting body to face her. “Slow down,” he murmured taking her face in his hands pressing down on her body with his to maintain some level of control over her. He felt the tip of his cock pressed lightly against the kissing lips of her soft, nether-mouth. The distraction was near too much. “Relax.” He looked into carnal eyes and kissed her. He forced himself not to slide in. “There’s no threat here.” She was close. The killer’s instinct was present.

Wide, wild eyes narrowed. A furious snarl escaped her as she grabbed forcefully at Duilliath’s ears.

“There is no threat here,” he repeated, snatching both of her wrists in his hands bringing them down together between them, pressing hard against her chest. He stared down her ferocity with an otherworldly calm. He had been with females of his own kind before. Many times.

“No—threat?” she panted struggling to regain her senses. Duilliath held his gaze, and her hands together, until she softened. “You—you stopped.” She blinked and fell back against the towels, the inner ache still there pressing hard against her sanity just as the male’s cock tip barely pressed against her physically. Both real. Both demanding. Her breathing remained ragged as she desperately longed to push herself down and take him in. “My apologies, Prince. My—I forget myself.”

“It’s been a long time for you, hasn’t it?” Duilliath asked. Her body radiated heat with sexual hunger. He kissed her curled fingers and watched her expression. Her face was flushed with passion. Her green eyes dark with desire.

“What?”

“Since you devoted any time to a man.”

She gazed up at the splintery, wooden slats of the ceiling. “A long time,” she breathed. Closing her eyes again, Æiristus drifted back to a similar rendezvous that was less than a decade ago. What was a pleasant diversion then, now seemed a lifetime away. And she missed him. Soft, ghostly fingers from the past merged with the smooth, firm touch of the present. Her lips parted for continued talk, but instead she felt the tender pressure of kissing. Her mouth responded to Duilliath’s gentle prodding and seeking.

Then, in a soft, controlled voice, she heard him say, “We’re going to try this again. You try not to get too feral on me this time.”

She nodded but still the warmth wormed through her abdomen as she tingled where he touched her. He stroked her at the threshold of entering her. His kisses taking in her mouth were hungry, but seeming not so ravenous as before. He allowed her to kiss in return, letting her own expression manifest to her will. Their tongues mingled and slid and she bit gently on his lip. Her mouth opened wide as she felt the tip of his tongue trace the lines of her upper and then her lower lip. He pressed his genitals against hers letting them slide sensuously against each other with her juices, without entry—just a kiss. She shuddered. Her legs widened, her knees lifted. He pressed harder against her as he kissed her. He transported her to another plane of existence. She did now know when her hands were released to prowl again.

Duilliath felt her fingers kneading into his sides and back and shoulders as he pulled away to kiss down along her dark outstretched neck. He nibbled over the rise and licked into the hollow of her shoulder. She whimpered as their pelvises parted, a small suction noise sounding of their nether kiss. Her breathing sped up, growing shallow and anxious again.

Gasping and moaning, Æiristus shivered at his touch against her breast. His tongue traced the swell of her out-thrust nipple, a deep red-violet blossom against the velvety darkness of her breast. She twisted and bent a knee up higher, dropping the other knee. Duilliath’s warm hand smoothed over the outside of her muscular thigh, keeping her leg close in. The softness of his white hair caressed the inside of her lifted thigh and he drew the tip of his tongue down along her quivering abdomen down to the swells of her pussy, seeking the quivering inner lips.

Duilliath fought hard not to lose himself in the sight and wet silkiness of the woman’s bare pussy. The scent and the heat rising still sweet and thick with the amber oils… he pushed his fingers over those swelling mound lips that had just kissed his cock. Soft and bare . . . So slick. He spread the outer lips apart until the swollen nub beneath its hood stood up. She strained under his flicking tongue, groaning deep, beyond her throat, deep from her chest. Taking the firm reddened flesh between two fingers he isolated her reaching clitoris from her pussy lips and gently sucked on it, nursing it, nibbling it, encouraging it to grow harder and tighter, more sensitive. In agonizing moments she was dancing on her back at his touch.

She was throbbing. Aching. His saliva and her cream flowed down to the towels beneath her making her buttocks rub against each other wetly as she bucked against Duilliath’s face.

She screeched and begged him to fuck her.

Duilliath slid two fingers inside her again and rocked back to watch her frenzy. He watched her as she slapped her hands down beside her, grasping at anything there. He was drunk with her pushing her hips hard against his hand working inside her. Her hair flew like damp, silver fire as her head thrashed about with her shrieking. So beautiful . . .

In a flurry, the passion-engulfed female sat upright enough to grab him by the hair and yank him down. “You will fuck me!” she demanded down at him and straddled him in an easy swing of her leg. One hand held the male down as her mouth covered his and the other hand wrapped itself forcefully around his hardened member. A single rock of her hips and he was deep inside her, impaling her. Æiristus stiffened. Her whole body shuddered and curled in on itself. Her toes curled and her fingers clawed red grooves in Duilliath’s chest.

Duilliath growled his objection as the female’s sharp fingernails gouged him, blooding him. He grabbed her hips and thrust deep inside her aggressively provoking the ardent woman to thrust against him. Balancing on her knees, Æiristus obliged his demands. Pounding down hard against his rock-hard pelvis, she screamed in delight at the cock plunging so deep and solid within her. She barely noticed when Duilliath rolled up from beneath her, lifted her legs over his shoulders and drove yet deeper inside her from above her.

Æiristus clawed at everything around her. Towels slapped against Duilliath’s back one moment and were replaced by scourging fingernails the next. His sides and back, shoulders and arms were a roadmap of the female’s zeal. She rocked and huffed beneath him attuned to his passion. Her head flew back making her hair fly as she arched. Her muscles squeezed him tight inside her as she curled. His balls slapped wetly against her hairless pussy and cream-sodden ass fueling both their mad desires. He felt her fingers exploring between their mated pelvises. He cried out as he slammed against her feeling her find her own sensitive pleasure centers. She pushed further in, wrapping two fingers firmly around his drenched, rock-hard shaft. She felt him shudder as she reached his slick balls and pressed what she could to her bald pussy.

Duilliath’s mind fled him, melted into the raging demands of his need and enraptured by the woman beneath him. He was animal. He was beast. His balls were enveloped by the firm grip of slick fingers and bald, wet pussy. His cock thrust in and out of the woman of its own. Hunger. Need. Brute, animal lust kept him going.

Æiristus bathed in the sweat falling from Duilliath’s brow. She watched as he squeezed his eyes tight, his face flushed dark violet, his mouth opened in ecstasy. His brow furrowed with the strain his convulsing body demanded of him. She saw a dark god above her.

Duilliath propelled himself to greater heights, his thrusting more intense. Harder he slammed down inside her. Harder and faster. Harder and faster and deeper. He rained sweat down on her and narrowly opened his eyes to watch as she gladly bathed in it. It was all too much for him. He had her legs pressed high against her own shoulders as she gasped for breath and pressed both hands against her thighs supporting the pressure smashing down on her from above. A thought blinded the male drow looking down on the pinned female. His golden eyes glazed over. He was beyond stopping himself. His hands crept down the back of her up-stretched thighs with each downward thrust until he was balanced and could maneuver while holding her down with just one hand.

In a sudden motion that caught Æiristus by surprise, Duilliath pulled completely out of her and with an instinctual move of his free thumb, he positioned himself to plow his cock straight into her unguarded anus. Æiristus stiffened instantly, howling in pain and shock. Shock blossomed into livid fury. Duilliath had dropped his full weight on top of her preventing her killing him in her rage. He buried himself so deeply inside her his balls pressed salaciously hard against her up-turned ass. The constriction around his cock was overwhelming. In an instant he felt his own body clench. He ducked his head and grunted, grinding his teeth together, clenching a fist with one hand and tightening his grip on the woman with the other. He throbbed, flooding her ass with his seed. Her swollen pussy throbbed against him still climaxing seemingly pleading for the cock to be returned. He held her tight. He pinched his eyes closed hard as he rasped against the enraged female struggling and shrieking, pulsing and climaxing beneath him. “I claim you for my own, Æiristus Vrynn,” he barely whispered. Lightheadedness closed in on him. He was still coming hard inside her. She would kill him if he lost himself as he so desperately wanted. “You are mine. Say it!”

Æiristus’ incensed howl came out a gurgled cry. Her eyes watered and burned. She could not breathe. The male was so heavy on top of her. Her head swam in a confused collage of disjointed thoughts and emotions. She heard someone above her making demands of her. “Say it!” she heard very clearly. What was wrong with her? Her whole body screamed at her. A beast raged within her clawing to get out. Clawing to kill. She was in horrible pain and yet she shivered and convulsed in overwhelming pleasure. She bit into blood. She shrieked and struggled. Something hard invaded her and injected its venom into her. Part of her was still hungry and unwilling to stop. With her every effort to fend it off it pushed into her deeper, harder, hurting her more, demanding more of her.

Duilliath pressed down harder on the besieged female. His instincts drove him passed sanity. He was unable to stop himself. He crossed the point of no return with her. He had to weaken her now. Had to get her to accept him. Slipping his forearm over her throat he drove himself deeper into her assaulted anus. Goddess, she felt good! “Relax and it won’t hurt so much!” he growled, determined not to let go of her. “Admit you are mine!”

Æiristus heard the voice. Colored spots flickered before her closed eyes.

“Don’t make me kill you.”

Choking…

“Now!”

“I—have…” her voice croaked. The unnatural throbbing had stopped. New fluids offered to ease the pain by working its way out between the mated bodies. She felt her tension yielding. Still, the pressure on her throat made her wheeze. She had no idea who was killing her now; her mind was fuzzy. Her abdomen tingled again. She was blacking out. “I—I am yours.”

From a distance she heard a sigh of relief. Pressure lifted from her throat and air flooded her pained lungs. Weight lifted from her obscenely folded body. And the assault softened and slid from her completely. A body crashed down hard beside her. “Never again,” she heard. An arm warm and damp with sweat fell protectively over her chest. Weakly, trembling from exertion, that same arm pulled her against the body that owned it. She felt herself curl up, away from the body behind her. She hurt. She hurt a lot. She tasted copper when she coughed. Her lungs hurt. Her head pounded. Her stomach lurched and tightened fighting nausea. She blocked her mind as to what her ass felt like. This kind of thing was only supposed to be a threat during the mid-century blooding. A hunt she had never participated in—and now knew why she had always missed it. She wanted nothing to do with it.

Duilliath pulled Æiristus in close. His arm encircled her waist until he buried his fist beneath her warmth and he buried his face into her thick still-damp hair against her back. He felt her shivering. Her aggrieved moans wounded him inside. He regretted the pain he inflicted on such a magnificent creature. But now she was his. She belonged to him fully. She acquiesced to being taken. By doing so, she accepted him as her lifemate. Although he very nearly had, now, he would not be required to kill her—at least not yet. The temple would be compelled to reconsider their position with her. This slave/lifemate/guardian/target-sanction situation was going to take some thought.

****

Duilliath felt his mind fading, beginning to doze. Or, was he coming out of it? He lifted his head and wiped at his eyes not knowing how long he was out. Æiristus was curled up beside him. Her skin exposed to the air was cold. In a burst of fear, he pressed his fingers against the side of her throat and found her strong pulse. She was sleeping. “Oh, thank goddess,” he murmured into her hair more heartfelt than he expected. “I’ve got to get you back to the room.”

Gawds, what was he going to do with a lifemate?