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The half-elf sat among the gaggle of nobles, lords, and ladies like a forest nymph — beguiling them with song, music, and innocent smiles, in a dress that left little to the imagination. Soft pink hair, laced with white, skimmed her purple shoulders, and those tender green eyes both seemed clueless and flirtatious all at once.
Gortash raised his goblet to his lips, savouring the wine before swallowing. He wondered if her mouth tasted the same; sweet berries interwoven with a harsh bitterness. Wondered how delightful she would sound as he sucked on her biteable neck, or if she released all pretence and gave in to the baritones lurking beneath that pure smile.
"I do hope Lord—Ah. Pardon. Archduke Gortash." The dwarven noble corrected himself, playing with a loose braid from his ornate beard. "That this new title shall finally give you the powers to protect the Gate."
Another man, human, made a noise in agreement. "Aye! No more piddling around wae that council! Specially wae them cultists on their way!"
A duchess whose name escaped Gortash, raised her nose and sneered. "Cultists? Simply a band of wild goblins. Will stand no match against the might of the Gate. Or your…steel creatures, your Grace."
Gortash smiled tight. The performance of being crowned the first Archduke of Baldur's Gate had its upsides. The attention for one. Yet this part he despised. He had enough of bickering nobles' day to day. An entire night entertaining them led to little more than a ringing in his ear, complaint after complaint. Them seeing his presence as a chance to inform him of their latest great idea or terrible malady.
"It's as my Lady says. Both myself and the Steel Watch stand ready. Baldur's Gate will hold, no matter the cost. I promise you that."
Such meaningless tripe, and yet it worked, and they turned the conversation to trade. Specifically, to ensuring it wouldn't inflate with the influx of immigrants crawling their way inside; speaking of people like they were dirt on the bottom of their shoes. Gortash swirled the dregs of his wine, then grabbed another from a passing server. He didn't need to speak, for his guests were content speaking at each other, not listening and only awaiting their turn upon the soapbox.
Laughter from the bard's table. The so-called 'Hero' of Moonrise had made herself comfortable, her plush round rump pressed into the wood as she leaned over to touch the arm of a human within the mob surrounding her. The pitiful thing wasn't looking at her face, but at her cleavage. Gortash didn't need any tadpole or to detect any thoughts to know the man's innermost secrets. The way he licked his lips and his hands clenched and unclenched. Man was practically fucking her in his mind. Thinking of taking the little songbird and making her scream before every lord and lady in the room. Steel Watch be damned.
Gortash tightened his hand around his goblet, feeling its weight. Heavy. But not heavy enough to beat a man's brains out in one blow. Good. The pathetic thing would suffer as it died. Beaten, bloody and weeping upon the stone floors before having his head crushed by his own archduke's boot.
Her eyes caught his furious gaze, and she raised her drink before taking a long and languid sip.
"Excuse me." Without giving his conversation companions time to complain, he stepped away and headed straight to the elven bard.
If she noticed him slithering through the crowd, or his presence behind her, she didn't react. Not until those around her began slinking away, their nose to the floor. Yet she met his glare with a smile and leaned back further, practically putting her entire body on display.
He'd seen dresses like it in the Facemakers' shop. Attire suitable for a Deva, Pennygood exclaimed, trying to pawn it as the perfect gift for any lover. On the mannequin it seemed the same as anything else, layers of fabric attached to pieces of dull metal, yet on her it came alive. On her, he saw it as Pennygood did. Attire suitable for the Gods.
"Why our dear Archduke," she crooned, "Such a pleasure as always. Marvellous party."
Her voice had a lilt that made her claim of being from Baldur's Gate one Gortash would have questioned, if he hadn't already done some digging on her family. They were some acrobatic and performing troupe that jumped from circus to circus, depending on the coin. To his regret, they were out of the Gate for the time being, leaving him no leverage apart from the knowledge that the woman before him was born to perform — born to tease and excite an audience, and oh so desperate for its approval.
"I was just telling our friends here of a time—"
"I'd like a word." He cut her off, tone clipped despite his grin. "If you may."
"Who am I to disappoint our little Lord?" She asked with a sly smile. He didn't offer his arm, yet she took it anyway, pulling herself up using his shoulder. She smelled of violets, the irresistible call of jasmine and red roses. Yet below that, something deeper lingered. Of woodlands in the deepest of night.
He dug the nails of his gauntlet into his palm. He held the power of Bane in one hand and had an imprisoned God beneath the very city, yet he still became nothing but a quivering mess before a woman.
A visit to Sharess' Caress would resolve it. In the dark, the female drow could pass for that tease of a bard. Oh, to have her on her knees, before having her beg him for release. Begging to be his partner. To sit at his side, or preferably, upon his lap. Naked.
He couldn't recall the last time he'd succumbed to the joys of the flesh, not with success being within his grasp. But it was as if she'd been created by Bane himself as a test to his dedication. Every fantasy, want and desire, distilled into one, perfect creature.
Her expression urged his curiosity further, her fingers teasing at his collar.
She wanted something. Not just him.
"Enjoying yourself?" He asked, passing her a fresh drink.
"Such a gracious host. Have you asked everyone this question?"
"Only the ones who rejected a place at my side." They stopped beside his throne, tucked into their own secretive corner where no one could hear. "I would have you as a partner. An equal. Check inside my mind if you must. You'll find no word of a lie."
"So dramatic." She rolled her eyes and Gortash bit his tongue. He'd have her over his knee for that, her ripe ass red from his handprints. "I believe I said that I'd consider it."
"I offer you the powers and place of a God, and you wish to consider it?" Gortash snorted. "How have you made it this far?"
Killing Myrkul's chosen was no small feat, and she carried herself around as if she knew so. Knew the hint of power it had over him, to have this mere bard be the cause of decades of planning to crumble in moments like sand to the tide. A mere bard and her cohort of maniacs. Everything up to that point could be considered cosmic coincidence but not that. Not her.
"Becoming a God serves me little. It would make me no better nor worse than I am now." She replied. "I have no interest in the nipping and biting of the deities at each other's heels. The same way I have little interest in the politics of court."
"Pity. You'd fit right in at court. Thinking this…display would work on me." He trailed the back of his hand down her arm, grinning at her shivers. He leaned closer, letting her feel his lips ghost across her skin as he traced the curve of her spine down her lower back. "Did you hope to get me alone? Take the Netherstone from my very fingers?"
"Not from your fingers," she turned, her lips near touching his. "More from the pile of discarded clothes at your bedside." She grinned, palms flat against his chest. "The night is still young, lordling. I have time."
A bluff, but a proud one. One even she believed to be true.
She pressed herself against him with no shame, letting him feel every curve of her. Gortash brushed away a stray hair from her face, a scar marring her perfect skin. More dotted her body, worn proudly, as if they were decorations in their own right. Prove her status as no mere court bard but something bigger, better.
"My head is not so easily turned by a pretty face." Gortash said, his gaze lingering.
Her breath was hot against his ear. "Yet it was turned. You've been looking."
Then her heat, and that intoxicating scent stepped back as she smiled into her cup. She downed it in one gulp, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
"While I do love talking about myself, I—" She winced, and gagged, holding the goblet away from her, covering her mouth. "Your tanks are off."
Gortash plucked the cup from her. "Not possible. They—" He took a sniff. Rose petals. Blood. And a faint sweetness of burning. A philter of love. He'd know it anywhere. Throwing it to the floor, he grabbed her bare waist and dragged her to the back hall, away from prying eyes.
How many of those exact potions had he watched be traded in exchange for someone's own immortal soul? The devil himself, passing it off like some rare elixir of the gods while gallons sat in rooms ready to be bottled and personalised when needed. During Gortash's younger years trapped within the House of Hope, the stink made him gag. But after months to years of his measly human life spent bottling the vile liquid, and knowing there were worse jobs Raphael could inflict upon him, the potion did little more than make his nose twitch. Yet still, it stank of Raphael. His brand of trickery. Gortash could practically hear the devil cackling in the Hells, watching his little dolls dance for his amusement.
Drunk giggles escaped the Bard's lips.
"If you wanted to get me alone, my Lord," she whispered into his ear, voice a delicate siren's call and breath a warm invitation, "you needed only to ask."
Gortash gritted his teeth.
My Lord.
He would make her gasp it, again and again. Groan it against his skin, scream it until she went hoarse. A song she'd sing for him, and him alone.
But not as her eyes glazed with a lust not her own. He'd seen for himself how potent the philter could be, turning the most frigid of beings into raging whores in seconds, desperate for the first person they laid their gaze upon. It never lasted longer than a day or two, ending faster once the desires of both parties were met. Therefore, most took their course. And once it wore off, the regret set in.
The way he wouldn't fall for her games, he wouldn't take her when she was a slave to wanton desire. If living within the House of Hope had taught him anything, it was patience. He could wait until the rutting woman at his side came to him of her own accord. No tricks. No games. Only her own, desperate need. Then he'd satisfy her. Her and her alone. Not at the whims of a God, nor due to the tricks of a potion.
He slammed the door of the grand hall behind him and shoved her away, needing distance before he changed his mind.
Two soldiers stood guard inside the back hall that was more of a hallway, a small connection of doors used by the guardsmen, but with a click of his fingers, the men stood to attention and scurried out, no doubt on their way to gossip to others on the activities of their Archduke. Fucking some floosy at his own coronation.
"I'll call for a healer." Gortash said, not looking at her as she wrapped her arms around his neck.
"I don't need a healer." She cooed, nuzzling her nose against his jaw, one hand playing with his hair and another slipping under his shirt, feeling his bare chest, his shoulders. She whimpered, her hips rolling, trying to find purchase somewhere, anywhere, like a bitch in heat. "I need you."
Gortash grasped her hair tight and wrenched her head back. She grinned at him, teeth gleaming in the dim light.
Sun had set upon the Gate, only torches and the glow of the moon illuminating the halls. Her skin glowed beneath it, and he allowed himself a moment, slipping his bare hand down her neck, across her shoulder; feeling the building heat, the sheen of sweat, the way her heart raced beneath her ribcage.
The sound from her throat at his touch came from the Hells itself. A succubus would wilt at it, fall to their knees, and implore mercy. Gortash gripped her tight, squeezing her supple skin, imprinting it to memory.
"The day will come where I will take you," he whispered against her lips, close enough to touch. "But that day isn't—"
She kissed him, a hard, desperate thing, tasting of wine, roses, and blood. Her tongue danced with his, wanting, eager and dizzying.
To swallow even a drop of a philter of love, was to swallow fire. To wallow within the very Hells and feel its lick against your skin, douse it, then create the flame anew. A never-ending cycle of need and want, of desire and lust, only to have it jerked away when close, leaving the drinker yearning. Demanding more.
His limbs weren't his own, pulled by a force stronger than himself but fuelled every bit by the craving within his heart. He wrenched her close, clutching her buttery soft thighs as he shoved her back into the guard's desk. He kissed her harder, a meeting of teeth, tongue, and lips.
He didn't know the question, yet the answer was her. To have her. To own her. To claim. Mark her upon his skin like a scar, there for all the world to see.
Her deft fingers worked their way down his chest, his arms, enjoying every inch of his skin, till coming to his waist. There she traced the outline of his cock, erect and throbbing to be freed from his constrictive breeches. She groaned into his throat.
"Please." She grinned through her pleas, and peppered hot, wet kisses against his chest. "I want you." Another hand fiddled with his shirt as she slipped her hands up his body, nails scraping across his flesh. "Gods, Bane picked well with you."
With a deep, guttural sound emanating from his chest, he grabbed her by her perfect, round rear and lifted her up onto the desk. She squealed, clinging to him, and arching herself to assist his removal of the delicate panties she'd been flashing all night. Skin burning hot and screaming against the cool air, he peeled off his coat and discarded it on the floor.
Below, the city lay quiet, the only sound within the hall their haggard breathing and the muffled chatter behind the doors. But that mattered not. In this world, they were alone, together, and nothing would come between them.
Slipping two fingers between her hot, wet folds, his thumb found the nub of her sweet clit and he couldn't speak. His hot, swollen tongue wanted only to taste her. To recite her to memory and make her scream, feel her quiver and cum around him. He clenched her thigh, his gauntlet biting into the soft flesh, and lifted them up and around his waist.
As he did, she undid the clasp of her metal bralette and discarded it with a clang upon the floor along with his coat. Then she moulded herself into him, mouth against his own, as if they were lovers in a tender embrace. He held tight to her thigh, thrusting his fingers deep within her molten cunt, feeling it shudder and squeeze as she cried out, rolling into his ministrations.
Freed, her nipples turned to small, delicate nubs, practically begging to be tasted. Shoving her back with a grunt, he lay his attention upon the right one first with sucks, licks and rough bites that got her arching up towards him. The other he grasped, scrapping the sensitive bud with the thumb of his gauntlet, leaving her a twitching, praying creature of pure and carnal lust.
He got on his knees, yanking her by her thighs closer, the only thought in his mind to consume her. To know every taste, every scar; to merge himself into her very skin where neither could be wiped away by the other. Her dripping cunt welcomed his wanton tongue, and her screams fuelled his wanton ache. Groaning deep, he lapped, suckled, and buried himself into her, led by her cries and rolling hips, urging him on and begging for more. For sweet and brilliant release.
His name fell from her lips like a ballad, cried out for all to know who she belonged to. It was the first time anything but Lord, Archduke or Lordling had tumbled out of her mouth, and the sound of him on her tongue broke all sense.
Her cry of ecstasy would service him for a lifetime, her release echoing through the very halls.
Gortash slipped out from her grasp, suckling at his fingers as he stood and began undoing his breaches. He groaned. "You taste like the heavens, sweet thing."
Eyes still filled with that untouchable need, she got to her knees before him, undoing the last few laces and revealing his thick, engorged member. Having it finally released was enough, but to have her take him with both hands and suck upon him. His brain went white.
Grasping her by the hair kept her to leash, keeping her slow and stopping him from spilling across her pretty face. He grunted, her tongue dancing across his tip, a raging fire building deep within his core. She released him with an audible pop, and ran her fevered, wet tongue slowly up his length, maintaining eye contact.
This he would remember till the day he died. Those eyes. That face.
Mind an inferno, he freed himself of the last of his clothing and lifted her. She obliged, wrapping her legs around him. She rocked, her slick core urging him inside. He slammed her back down on the desk, taking the air from her lungs.
Hand wrapped around her throat, he let the metal dig deep enough to leave a mark, enough to draw blood. A sweet whimper escaped her lips. He hitched up her leg and yanked her closer, teasing her wet entrance with his thick tip, grinning as she tried to roll into him; as she whimpered and keened and begged. He leaned down and rested between her breasts, switching between suckling, and biting each of the hardened nubs.
"Gortash, please. Please. I…I can't—"
"Enver." He squeezed around her neck tighter. "Say it."
It was almost a whisper, a breath to be carried away by the wind. "Enver. Enver, I beg—"
One of the doors to the hallway burst open. A guard stood, doubled over, and gasping for air, then jumped to attention, frozen at the scene before their eyes.
"L-L-L-Lord Gortash! I-I mean…Archduke Gor—"
"What. Is. It?" Gortash snapped.
The bard whimpered and whined beneath him, as if she were about to be denied. Gortash drove her down into the desk again, earning him a contented gasp as her legs clamped around him.
"Your absence has been noted." The guard said. "I..I'll let the attendees know you're otherwise engaged-"
"Kill them." He kissed the mound of her bosoms, savouring the sweetness of her skin. "All of them. Oh and—" The guard stopped, not looking the Archduke in the eye. "Have my schedule tomorrow cleared."
The guard nodded and left.
"E-Enver." The bard whimpered. "Enver please."
He could still taste what was left of the love potion on her tongue as he slid himself inside. Still tasted her. Both cried out. Her dripping sex shuddered and writhed around his length. Yet neither stopped, their insatiable greed only growing to a feral and delirious ecstasy.
Any control he believed he possessed left his mind replaced with only one singular thought.
"Mine." He grunted, lifting her legs higher to fuck her deeper, claim more of her. "Mine. You are mine."
No words escaped her lush, enticing mouth, only the most delicious of sounds as she bucked against him and grasped his shirt, eyes skyward, as if witnessing the birth of the Weave itself.
Gripping her hips, he thrust hard again. Again. Again. Screams as sweet as a hymn poured from her lips, her nails clawing. Her tight cunt fluttered around his cock; her eyes glazed.
Torches dimmed around them, and beyond the silence of their haven, screams rattled through the stones, mixed with the clanging of metal. Gortash only laughed against her skin. He had his prize, the rest of them could burn.
"Cum," he groaned, his own heat ready to burst within her, "Cum for me."
"Enver…Enver I…I—" He broke her off, fingers at her clit and hot mouth around her nipples. "Enver!" She tightened around him, the walls of her sex twitching and milking his hard cock. Growling, he forced deeper, deeper, harder, till all that echoed through the night were his love's screams, begging him not to stop.
He spilled himself within her as she came again, clinging to him for dear life. For several moments, they lay together, the only movement being the heavy rise and fall of their chests. He didn't want to separate from her, to no longer feel her heat or have the cool air make her realise what they'd done. The philter's warmth still rushed through his blood, thudding through his cock, already hard again within her. He moved his hips, and she whimpered.
"Again."
Gortash grinned, sliding out of her and enjoying the slick proof of his seed inside her. He pushed himself back in, forcing his seed deeper. "Oh, the things I'm going to do to you." He pressed his lips to her wrist. "The night's still young, little songbird."
She ground herself against him, arching into his cock. "Going to steal me, Mr Villain? Lock me away in your tower like a bad, bad man?"
He captured her lips in his and lifted her into his arms, taking her out into the main hall. The thick smell of blood sat heavy, but it was little over the heady aroma of pure sex sitting between them. Tied to him, she saw none of it, not the bodies upon bodies, nor blood seeping into the stones as he took her up the tower to his quarters.
Their quarters. Her prison. At least until she accepted her fate.
Those foolish companions of hers could retrieve Orin's stone. This one was his.
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He awoke the next morning to an empty bed, the worst hangover known to the Astral Plane, and a note attached to his gauntlet, sans its Netherstone.
Told you so.
Love,
Your little songbird
p.s. call me xxx
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