#please read this if you like venthyr

[late-to-the-fandom]

It's post-Nathria victory smut. Renathal gets a well-deserved break from all the angst. Rated E for extremely explicit, and while I don't write anything close to problematic smut, there are some kinks in here. You can read the full list in the tags on Ao3 here.

The table in Renathal's Sinfall room had clearly been carved for Denathrius. It was large enough to serve any Venthyr as a spacious bed, though whether it could be considered comfortable was up for debate. But the Maw Walker was making no complaints as she lay back against it and spread her legs temptingly. Renathal let his fingers enjoy the slick wetness she presented him, and the little whimper she made when he slid them inside.

He had wanted to take her like this, right here, since the beginning of their affair. He was not sure why. The table did not have any particular significance, except that it was where Renathal worked, and the thought of the Maw Walker laid naked across it had made the hours of tedious paperwork more bearable. Now, said paperwork - so meticulously organised - was scattered about his usually pristine workspace and the floor around it, victim to the Maw Walker's thoughtless swipes as she searched for something to hold on to.

Her hips rose instinctively to meet his hand, but the way she wriggled restlessly and scratched her nails against the unyielding wood, Renathal knew it was not his careful fingers she wanted inside her. The Maw Walker craved the deepest, most primal parts of him, and he was addicted to her desire. But tonight, he was going to make her wait. He wanted to take his time, commit this moment to memory.

Because he could. He could do whatever he wanted now. Denathrius was defeated, and no one could stop Renathal from having his way anymore.

Not really, of course. They had scant minutes before one or other of them was missed. The party upstairs celebrating Denathrius’ downfall had been wrapping up when Renathal and the Maw Walker made their escape. And this was hardly the end of the rebellion's efforts. There were still so many important decisions to be made, a thousand next steps to think through. Any moment now, he was sure, someone would be sent to his rooms to locate the two most important people in Revendreth, and would find one of them spread out wantonly across the table and the other with half his hand pumping lazily in and out of her.

The only real difference was Renathal no longer cared about being caught.

“Renathal, please!”

The Maw Walker scrabbled insistently at his abdomen, demanding to be sated; her blunt fingernails combing through the little trail of fine blond hair. Renathal's satisfied smirk was born of his victory and his desire. The only being the Dark Prince of Revendreth answered to anymore was his realm's Nightborne saviour.

Eyes glowing amber with wicked fire, Renathal withdrew his hand and brought his slick fingers to his lips. He savoured the heady, exotic flavour, and the Maw Walker's broken moan as she watched him.

“What do you want, dearest?" Renathal asked in a teasing rumble.

In answer, the Maw Walker pushed herself up, and slid her hips to the edge of the table. She reached longingly for Renathal, stroking the planes of his bare chest. He had removed his armor and shirt, but left his trousers just to annoy her; his impossibly buoyant spirits putting him in that sort of mood. But the Maw Walker could play that game as well as Renathal, or better.

She leaned in until her lips met his and murmured, "I want to come around the Prince of Revendreth's perfect cock," knocking the affected breath from him momentarily.

Grabbing her face with careless claws, Renathal tugged the Maw Walker's mouth to his, his tongue searching out the taste of her words. He was distantly aware of her fingers fumbling his belt with eager haste, pushing metal and cloth away to free him. Her blunt nails carefully traced his length, as though she might somehow hurt him.

Renathal's low groan held notes of triumph. In this moment, he doubted anything could hurt him ever again.

He kicked the last of his clothes away, anticipation making him shiver. For the first time since he had dreamed of deposing his Master, Renathal felt untouchable. And for the first time in perhaps his entire existence, nothing felt out of his grasp.

Because he had her. And now, as he gripped her thighs and spread her legs and pushed himself within, Renathal had all of her. The Maw Walker's little gasp of his name, the way her arms wrapped around him, pulling him closer, were undeniable proof. And nothing was going to take her from him.

“Maw Walker, are you in here?!”

It was Nadjia’s voice, accompanied by a fist pounding on the closed door.

Renathal faltered, only half inside her, and the Maw Walker groaned into his neck. It was not a sound of lust, but disappointment, and Renathal did not like its implications. He wrapped an arm firmly around her lower back. She was not going anywhere.

The doorknob rattled violently, and he ground his teeth at the persistent interruption. It was locked, but apparently nothing so trivial could dissuade the Mistblade.

“Maw Walker, I know you’re there! Come, we have foes to vanquish! The courtiers in the Chalice District are out for revenge over Denathrius’ defeat and we must -"

"The Maw Walker is occupied at present."

Renathal spat the over-loud words between gritted fangs. He let himself sink another inch deeper, and the Maw Walker's muffled whimper vibrated against his skin. It was almost disappointing how quiet she managed to be. The hand not keeping her trapped against him slipped between them to brush her clit. The angle was off, Renathal knew, but her round fingernails digging little crescents into his back assured him it worked just fine.

"Your Highness, this is important!" said Nadjia impatiently, rattling the doorknob again, and annoyance unraveled the last of Renathal's inhibition.

"So is this!"

He snapped his hips hard in emphasis, and the Maw Walker cried out against his shoulder. And there was no way for such a lust-laced sound to be misinterpreted.

The doorknob went still. Then the sound of swiftly moving boots echoed away down the passage, and Renathal was willing to bet his own sword he knew exactly where Nadjia was going. Rumours about the precise nature of the Prince and the Maw Walker's relationship had always been popular in Revendreth, but no one had ever found firm evidence it was anything other than a respectful friendship. Until now.

The Maw Walker lifted her head, blinking dark desire from her eyes.

“Oh damn,” she panted, pushing loose hair out of her face. “I'm afraid ... this won't stay secret much longer." She slid from the desk, Renathal sliding out of her, as she struggled to extricate herself from his arms. “I can try to-“

“Perfect.”

The Maw Walker blinked up at him, confusion evident in her furrowed brow.

“What?”

But Renathal’s reply was to tug her around by the hips and bend her over the edge of the table.

He slid a proprietary hand down the dusky skin of the Maw Walker's back, enjoying the dip in her spine as she arched under the sensation of his dragging, claw-like nails. Her only other response to the change of position was a shiver and a heated sigh, which Renathal took as permission to ease her legs apart and slide into her from behind. He knew from her wordless moan that any worries about rumours had safely evaporated. She lost all focus when he hit that particular spot, and he used it mercilessly to his advantage.

“Perfect, that's perfect,” she echoed breathlessly, and anima surged through Renathal's veins at her approval.

He set a slow, decadent pace, letting his head roll back and his eyes drift closed. For long, blissful moments he refused to count, Renathal did nothing but enjoy the feeling of the Maw Walker's flesh rolling under his fingers ... savour the sensation of her walls clenching tightly around him.

She was the saviour of the Shadowlands, the Champion of the Horde and of Revendreth, but she was his first and foremost. She knew it, and soon everyone else would, too.

"Faster," the Maw Walker whined. "Please Renathal faster!"

Need dripped from her words, feeding Renathal's heady sensation of power. He wound her long hair around his hand and dragged her towards him, bending her back like a bow, bringing her face close to his.

"You are not giving the orders right now, Maw Walker," he growled into her long ear.

The throb of dominion in his voice made the Maw Walker whimper, and her hips abandoned their insistent rhythm. She dropped her head back onto Renathal's shoulder, surrendering her neck to his open mouth, and letting him fuck her at his preferred pace.

"That's right," Renathal murmured against her delicate skin. "Good girl."

He released her hair to wrap possessive fingers around her throat, angling it more comfortably against his exposed fangs. He sucked hungrily on the Maw Walker's hammering pulse, as if he might drink in her essence like anima; his need her for just as vital. Her necessary heart's frantic rhythm encouraged his hips to pick up speed.

The Maw Walker clamped her mouth shut tightly, stifling her little noise of delight, and Renathal's burning eyes narrowed. His other hand left her hip and met the side of her ass with a smack; more sound than contact, though still enough force to make her jaw drop as she cried out. But Renathal knew that noise too well by now, and it meant pleasure, not pain.

"Absolutely not," he reprimanded, his voice jagged edges. "Let all of Sinfall know you belong to me!'

True, sound did not carry from this deep corner of Sinfall, but it was the principle of the thing. Renathal kicked her legs further apart to thrust deeper, and reveled in the Maw Walker's open wail.

"Renathal yes Renathal please don't stop yes yes yes"

The high stone walls echoed her wild praise, creating a choir to Renathal's prowess in the Maw Walker's voice. The smack of her skin against his was the perfect harmony, and the glorious chorus made Renathal's head swim. A distant, thinking part of his brain wondered if this supreme assurance of one's own perfection was how Denathrius had always felt, and, for once, the thought of his Sire provoked no jealousy at all. Because for everything his Master had that Renathal did not, Denathrius would never have this. Her.

Renathal's lips locked onto the skin of the Maw Walker's throat, sucking it hungrily between his teeth. He could feel her body shaking, inside and out, and her arms craned desperately over her shoulders, groping for any part of him she could reach. She was close, Renathal knew, and he felt just magnanimous enough now to grant her release. He snaked a hand around her trembling body to rub the side of her clit, and this time the angle was just right.

""UH Renathal yes right there Renathal Renathal ..."

The way his name spilled from her mouth was his favourite thing to hear. And Renathal planned to listen to it for the rest of eternity.

As the Maw Walker's body tensed in his arms, her cries abruptly stalling into wordless gasps, Renathal could not keep his own completion back any longer.  Mouth still pressed to her neck, he murmured her name as he followed, whispering it against her skin, like a spell that would bind her to him.

Perhaps it was the sound of her own name in Renathal's wrecked voice that undid the Maw Walker, or maybe her orgasm was just that good. Either way, her legs gave out, Renathal's arms the only thing keeping her from collapse. She shuddered uncontrollably, as if she might break to pieces in his hands.

And it took Renathal several long moments to notice any of these things. He was still lingering in the ineffable high, bathing in the warmth of her sweat-slicked skin. Only when a particularly erratic twitch of her legs alerted him to her discomfort, did he, with great reluctance, release her and help steady her on her feet.

The Maw Walker turned awkwardly, caught between the table and Renathal, who refused to retreat. Instead of threading her arms back around him per usual, she touched her own neck, fingers exploring the little, raised marks now decorating it. The neckline of her robes was nowhere near high enough to cover them, and Renathal's bliss abruptly ebbed.

He had not asked the Maw Walker whether she preferred their affair to remain secret. They had never discussed the subject at all. And while the thought of her traversing the Shadowlands with his claim on her visible for all to see thrilled Renathal beyond description, there was no denying the Maw Walker had always preferred her privacy.

"There are likely still some healers about," Renathal said, in the closest to apology he could muster. His own fingers traced a wistful path between the pretty violet wounds. "I am sure one of them could be trusted to ... take care of these for you. If you prefer."

The Maw Walker bit her lip as she glanced up at him, trying to hold back her blooming smile. 

"Well, then how would all of Sinfall know I'm yours?" 

It took Renathal's brain a moment to interpret her words, and another moment to believe them.

What little space remained between them, he removed in a heartbeat. He clutched the Maw Walker to him, still acclimating himself to their new, incredible reality, then hoisted her into his arms. The smile she could no longer hide was a perfect match for the joy expanding in his chest.

"Oh, I don't know," Renathal said with cheerful mischief, "they might have heard it somewhere."

The Maw Walker's laugh was exuberant, the happiest Renathal had ever heard her, and for a moment he could not move or breathe. The complete perfection of having everything he wanted overwhelmed him, and when she brought her lips to his, he could only follow her lead. Each fervid, heated kiss held everything his lover could not say, every promise she could not make, and Renathal accepted them with reverence. He would find a way to keep her with him, no matter what it took.

They had defeated Denathrius together, after all. Was there anything they could not do?

Read Part 14: Masters of Revendreth: Things Seen | Visit the Masterpost

#renathal x maw walker #fanfiction #my writing #prince renathal #wow #world of warcraft #shadowlands #Venthyr #revendreth #Sinfall #renathal x oc #renathal x reader #Renathal fanfiction #smut #nsft #interrupted again #light & shadows

[wikdsushi-v2]

Characters out of Context

I was tagged by the lovely and wonderful @mysdrym, who enables me in my venthyr addiction. :D I have three WIP's right now now, so I'll let you figure out what goes with what. (I'll post one of these days. I'm busy making warm things for winter, because my doctors frown upon putting on more weight and hibernating.)

Rules (in image form, since I'm lazy):

These are all from the Dowsabel universe, aka The OC Who Ran Off With My Brain. Take a guess who says what.

---

“Apparently, it involves putting armour on the soles of one’s shoes."

“There was something flavourful in that kiss.”

“I’m not tonguing your arse in the bath.”

“It’s not fit for polite company.”

“I am sure she will turn up under the sofa. Perhaps in a vase somewhere. She is very small, you know.”

“You want it, too. Look at your breeches.”

“Please take it. Tomorrow is going to be long and difficult, and you can’t face it without rest.”

"Erm, I don’t suppose either of you would know what ‘yee-haw’ means?”

“So I am mad! Does that mean I must sleep forever under the watch of my beloved gaolers?”

"Whu?"

“Bah! You have a tongue of stone, my love.”

“I won’t ask why you called him your princess.”

"Oh, I know that look. Did you get any sleep at all?"

“Has the meeting finally started? I have manuscripts to read, you know, including three from your husband.”

"Theotar’s harmless as a babe to all but reputations!”

“I’m going to enjoy it all over your hand, if you don’t ease off.”

“No fangs this time? It hurts to walk if you get too bitey.”

"She beheaded the General."

“Are you thinking of the time I put Vrednic in a red gown, sent him running through Yelseveta’s party, and asked in a blind panic if anyone had seen my bride?”

“But you love his liqueur cherries! You got drunk on them during the Festival of Souls!”

“It’s your wedding day, Duke Where’s-A-Bucket.”

“I didn’t realise your cock down my throat was a form of affection.”

"You’re looking unusually dressed, Theotar. At this rate, next wedding, we’ll have you in a shirt!”

“Lovely service in this brothel. Is there something I can do to you, my lady?”

“Get out of my bedroom, you beastly thing! I shall be there when I’m ready!”

“Aren’t you just nauseatingly sweet?”

"Happy lady!"

“Jennie! Are you holding Deano or what? He’s heavy.”

“Dad says they’re a match made in the Void.”

“I love you. Can I have a cookie?”

“I told you, no fucking swearing around the damn kids! If mine start that shit, I’m mounting your fucking head on the Light-damned wall!”

“So much for oligarchy.”

“It always makes me nervous when the two of you start having fun.”

“It is very polite, much like the rest of me. It stands for beautiful ladies.”

“Perhaps I should make you hard again and have you while my consort takes your arse. Have you ever been taken by two at once?”

"I like your chain."

"Am I wearing my shoes?"

“I am sure the fleshy tiny toes are even more delicious!”

"I'd rather no-one put a razor to my cock."

"It's only a story."

"I hope dinner is not sausages."

(Not all of these are easy, but they're all characters that have appeared or been mentioned in the Dowsabel stories at one point or another.)

#world of warcraft #worldofwarcraft #theotar #prince renathal #fanfic #gwennit #dowsabel #venthyr #Ask #Dialogue

[fluffleforce-mysdrym]

Saving Souls (Truce) - The Accuser - October Writing Prompt

While the Accuser couldnot say whether the assault on the Maw did any lasting damage to the Jailer’s forces—there were so many souls pouring into it—she was pleased with what they were able to accomplish.

She and half a dozen of her inquisitors had brought all the chains they could carry.

It wasn’t originally part of Prince Renathal’s or General Draven’s plans, but it seemed like such an obvious tactic. The Jailer’s army was fueled with souls, so why not take some? Take the ones that weren’t meant for there and bring them home to where they belonged, to where they could be saved.

It had made so much sense to her that she had been more than a little annoyed at the surprise on Renathal’s face when she told him what she intended to do. Of course he’d approved. She just wished he had thought of it himself.

The Accuser hadn’t known what to expect when their forces descended into the Maw, but it hadn’t been what they had found. She had looked out at the Maw from the edges of Revendreth an impossible amount of times.

The first had been when the venthyr seeking to save her had brought her there. It had been a moment of desperation, where her tormentor and savior had marched her to the edge and pointed out, held her over that drop and asked her if she really didn’t deserve it for him to simply let go.

Even then, unable to see into the Maw, only able to see its dark vortex, with tendrils of animosity that felt like they were reaching for her, like they would easily grip her and yank her out of her tormentor’s grasp, she had been terrified of it.

There was a darkness there, something so much more wicked than anything else she had ever encountered.

Even herself.

It was the second that thought had struck her that her tormentor—her savior, really—had pulled her back over the ledge, saying that if she could recognize the wickedness in her, perhaps she could overcome it after all.

So many times after she had been gifted her venthyr form, she found her way to the ledge, shuddering to find that those tendrils gripped her still, that the Maw was still hungry for her.

At first, despite the conviction she had in their cause to save souls, there had been a little whisper in the back of her mind that the Maw wanted her because that was where she should have gone. That now that she could recognize all the wrongs she had done, she had to know that there was no true penance that could be done for them.

It had been so tempting to just accept it, to step off that ledge and let the Maw claim what rightfully belonged to it.

The one time she had gotten closest to it, had felt her foot start to step forward, a hand had come down on her hand, and she was pulled back. The Harvester of Pride had been there, frown in place.

“You can’t believe it’s lies,” he’d said simply, already ushering her back toward the Halls of Atonement—they hadn’t been nearly as grand as they were by the time she assumed that title. When she had looked at him, confused, he’d nodded his head back toward the Maw, without ever taking his eyes off her. “It pulls at everyone.” Even as she wondered how he could read her so well, he’d leaned his head down to add in a whisper, “Myself and the Curator included.”

That had been what the Accuser had needed to hear, more than anything.

They two were venthyr made by Denathrius and not of souls. They had never committed atrocities.

By the Master, the Curator was one of the most just and true creatures the Accuser had ever known. If she felt that miserable tug from the Maw, then it really did want anything.

Everything.

The Accuser’s intent during the assault had been to claim the souls of those who needed redeeming.

But when they got there, there were so many. One soul, mostly hidden behind some torture contraption the Accuser didn’t want to put words to name, was so frightened upon being found that it simply gave up. One moment it was a shivering, weeping mess. Then next, with a word from her, it let out a wail and was nothing.

Some of the souls that huddled together in cages shown with an innocence that reminded the Accuser of Camille. That was when it truly struck her just who was going to the Maw.

Everyone.

She knew that. She had known since the Maw Walker had told her, and yet… Somehow it had not sunk in that the ascended, adhering to their most sacred duty, would allow even souls like this make that wretched plummet.

How many Camilles had been sent here? How many had been tormented and fallen apart the way that one soul had?

It made her sick.

She and her inquisitors filled their chains with all the souls they could. She made sure of it. Every one they could manage to pull out of here was one less soul that would suffer such cruelty.

They could parse out where the souls were meant to go later.

When Renathal finally called the retreat—there could be no true victory here in this place with its unending army—the Accuser had been tempted to stay behind. To establish some sort of relay, with her inquisitors. They could take turns here, venturing out from their fortifications, gathering all the souls they could, and taking them to Revendreth. They could have members from a few other realms come to discuss which souls would be best sent where.

A small part of her wanted to deny the Ascended a right to any of them. After all, if they wanted the souls in Bastion so badly, they could have spared them the free fall.

She had started to argue with Renathal about falling back to Sinfall.

To her surprise, he had caught her by the arm and pulled her close, whispering in her ear, “This place leeches everyone, every soul that comes here. That includes you and every one of our people. What will happen to the souls we’ve saved, to our charges, if we perish here?” And then, as though to make sure that she would not argue further, he added, “The Curator will not leave without you.”

The words had been worse than any punch to the gut.

Even now, free of the Maw and back in Sinfall, she felt like Renathal had stooped too low.

Though, as she glanced over the room of souls they had saved—how were there only this many freed from that place—she saw the Curator and knew that she had made the right call.

The Curator looked worn, like she might fall over, though the Accuser knew not to draw attention to it in front of anyone else. The Curator would be beside herself if she realized how obvious it was that the Maw had worn her down.

And now that she was back in Revendreth, that drive to save the souls in the Maw—while still there—had a more calculated edge to it. She could see better how it would make no sense to take up a permanent place in the Maw, how there would need to be rotations and how they would likely need to change which areas they attacked, to keep the Mawsworn from simply amassing forces where they knew to expect them.

“The Maw plays on emotions, on fears.”

The Accuser didn’t look to her side to see Renathal. “I assume you learned that during your previous visit?”

“Denathrius told me, eons ago,” Renathal replied, voice flat. “It saw how desperately you wanted to save them and knew exactly how to keep you there.”

“You think it has a consciousness?”

“More so than Revendreth does.” She could see him adjust his cuff from the corner of her eye. “I do apologize for upsetting you, but my next step was going to be to knock you unconscious, and we both know that’d be a nightmare to do. The Curator would have been cross with me for decades.”

The Accuser allowed herself a derisive snort, affording Renathal a sideways glance. “She’d have knocked you unconscious.”

“No doubt,” Renathal replied, offering her a lopsided grin. “Well then? Do we have a truce? Or do I need to watch my back?”

“You always need to watch your back, dark prince,” the Accuser replied dryly. “But you’ve no need to fear anything from me.”

“That is something I’m glad to hear,” Renathal said, his usual pomp accompanying it.

Looking back at the Curator, the Accuser caught her eye and gave her a gentle smile before resuming her usual expression. “Now either help with these souls, or find somewhere else to be.”

#world of warcraft #the accuser #october writing prompt

[thefugitivemango]

New Story: Inquisition - Pt II

[Look alive-- figuratively speaking, mind. We're not alone anymore.]

Avehi's tail twitched, shoulders straightening as she looked around. Melosh was right; they had guests. Expected guests, thankfully. Lord Sadek's promised help, she presumed. Two figures approached from the end of the Rampart, each rather distinct from one another.

The first, most obvious of the two was a Stoneborn. Fascinating creatures carved from rock and given life by anima, as their name implied. It wasn't the first of their sort Avehi had seen. The Scourge, too, employed similarly-forged creatures they called gargoyles to rain destruction from above. But the Scourge's mindless beasts weren't nearly as impressive-- neither in stature or cunning-- as these Stoneborn.

The other was much more familiar to Avehi; a blood elf. Avehi hadn't expected to be aided by another Azerothian. She wondered how a blood elf came to serve the Tithelord, but… as he neared, the answer became clearer. This blood elf was dead. A soul, given form by anima. He wore fine red plate, stylized as a mix of Venthyr and his native elven aesthetic. His eyes glowed gold, indicating to Avehi that he lived to see the restoration of their Sunwell. Auburn hair, short and swept neatly to the side between his long ears. And floating along behind him, chained to his waist, was a sinstone. Avehi had heard of them, but only now got to see one for herself.

Despite Melosh’s concerns about the deal Avehi made, she makes contact with Lord Sadek’s agents-- a stoneborn named Hannibal, and the excessively prideful Blood Elf soul of Aethius Sunslayer. The Baroness and the haughty Blood Elf don’t exactly hit it off right away...

Read this chapter and the one before it over at the Observer’s Archives! The stories are free to read-- but if you like them? Please consider supporting me by becoming a Patron!

#character story #Avehi the Adamant #Aethius Sunslayer #Hannibal #Revendreth #Death Knight #Draenei #Blood Elf #Stoneborn #Warcraft #The Observer's Archives #patreon

[sabbactroll]

What if Sabbac ended up in a covenant she never planned on joining?

Content warning: Blood, adult themes, body horror, non-consent. Your mileage may vary - please take care of yourself before and after reading.

Oh that’s a good question. OOCly, I’m planning on sending Sabbac to Maldraxxus, because newfound quest for power + Draka being the ubercool heavy metal mom that she is.

But what if Sabbac ended up elsewhere, you ask? Here are some brief thoughts from AU Sabbacs...Sabbs...you get what I mean.

Ardenweald: It’s far too peaceful and pleasant here. The trees speak in whispers and sighs, the wildlife merrily prance about, and I am asked to assist with the almost daily plays put on by the local faeries. 

So joyful. So happy. Always talk about rebirth, re-emerging into a new form.

I am a thing of death and decay - life fades wherever I walk. Why was I supposed to be here? Am I to learn what it means to live again?

Bastion: Follow the path, they say. Forget your earthly duties, your emotions, your hatred. There is no Horde, there is no Alliance. Prepare yourself for ascension.

And so I train to join the creatures of the sky, my future wings chained down by everything I held close to me in life. How can I forget and forgive the dead that tore into my chest, who robbed me of the good fortunes I possessed? How am I to become a blank slate for which the Archon to write upon?

Venthyr: I know now, as sure as ever, that I am to be punished for the sins I committed in life. I will not convey everything that I did in life here, as my Lady already knows them by heart. She sips from her glass, filled with the sweet wine of souls like mine, and bids me recount as many as I can remember while She presides in that damned chair of Hers. If I make a mistake, I must start from the beginning, and a little more of my essence refreshes Her drink. I feel weak in her presence.

“You will serve Us in time, my sweetling,” She whispers. Her voice is like a thorn that digs into my flesh and refuses to dislodge itself. “Tell me again of your time at the Broken Tusk. I want to know about the Captain.” Her lips are rotted, pustule-filled grey slivers drenched in my anima. And Her eyes - Loa preserve me, those faded golden eyes. “Chin up. Look at me when I’m speaking to you, Sabbac, daughter of Chiabi. My servants must always look into my eyes when addressing me. I thought you knew that.”

I did. I tell her.

“I’ll state my request again, dear. Tell me about the Captain. Tell me what happened when he first came to the Tusk. And especially, dear Sabbac, tell me about the promise he made to you. The promise that he would not abandon his wife for a, what were his words?”

“ ‘Ugly liddle toad wid’ tusks.’”

“Yes. Go on, my little darling. Unburden yourself.” My Lady drinks, and I begin to fade into her growing darkness once again. Soon, I believe, there will be nothing of me left to give. 

I do not know what will become of me then.