Disclaimer: I do not own the Forgotten Realms
NSFW Warning: This particular chapter contains scenes of a graphic sexual nature, hard-core fantasy violence, as well as graphic depictions of nudity.
An ominous roll of thunder heralded the dawn for Lystra and her companions. They had awakened early, Kivan rousing them from their slumber, a meager fast of dried fruits and meats their only sustenance before they took once more to the road.
Lystra led the way, as she had the day before, despite all three of them knowing the path. If Huvertrov noticed the silence between them he gave no sign, lending credence to both Kivan and Lystra’s suspicion that the Gnome had eavesdropped on their conversation the night before. In turn, they too gave no sign of this knowledge, and thus they traveled in silence, their movements marked only by the sullen splashing of their horse’s hooves in the various puddles marking the Coastway.
It was some miles into their journey before anything of note occurred, the herald of which were their mounts. Lystra had been lost in thought, her eyes scanning, though not truly seeing, their surroundings, when Shadowflight snorted. The ranger apprentice cocked her head at her mount curiously but when the mare began stamping its hooves and showing hesitance to continue further, she genuinely took note.
By this time, Kivan and Huvertrov’s horse too was showing signs of unease and Lystra drew her bow from its holster in her saddle, whilst Kivan shrugged his from his back, both rangers laying arrows across their weapons, keeping their horses steady with their knees.
Moving her sight from the landscape around her, Lystra focused in on the road ahead. Perhaps half a mile or so down the path, a great number of blackbirds circled and swooped down upon what appeared to be a large cluster of masses strewn along, as well as alongside, the Coastway. Kicking herself for not noticing such a sight sooner, she urged her reluctant mount onwards, her eyes now scanning the area of and around what could only be a collection of bodies upon the road.
As she neared the site, what it was became more clear. A decent amount, perhaps twenty, horses and their riders lay lifeless in the mud, their bodies pierced with thick, feathered projectiles.
Coming within a couple of hundred yards of the massacre, Lystra urged Shadowflight to halt, dimly aware that Kivan and Huvertrov had likewise stopped beside her.
“Flaming Fist,” the Harper commented in low tones, identifying the mark both fallen rider and horse bore.
Lystra nodded silently in reply, her eyes still narrowed, scanning the scene as well as the landscape around it.
To either side of where the riders had fallen, fields of waist-high grass spread, a decent place for an ambush, she surmised.
Kivan had obviously come to the same conclusion as a moment later he murmured, “are the ambushers still near?”
“Shadowflight would not shy from dead bodies alone,” was Lystra’s reply, though she needn’t have bothered, for as the words left her lips an arrow came arching out from the tall grass to the right of the road. Both rangers reacted immediately, easily avoiding the shot and returning fire of their own, launching arrows into the grass at their unseen foe.
Almost as soon as their respective shots disappeared into the foliage, a great roar echoed forth and numerous beastly creatures burst from their cover to charge the trio. They were orcs, easily identified by three people who had spent their lives wandering the wilder lands of Faerun, a definition easily applied to the entirety of the Sword Coast. Their frames were massive, though hunched. Their muscled physiques wrapped in an assortment of makeshift armor, though one thing uniform throughout their attire was a sigil of a black fang splashed upon a pouldron here, a chest-piece there. Their skin tones were a range of light to dark green and all wore their, mostly black, wiry hair in long ponytails streaming down their backs, heavy in the moisture-laden air. Another uniform aspect among them was the top half of their faces were painted white in a somewhat skull-like motif.
“White-Skulls!” Kivan cried, his alarm evident and highlighting a deeper concern than the fact that there were about two dozen of them currently charging the three. Lystra understood that deeper concern. The White-Skull Orc Tribe had been driven north over the Chionthar years earlier almost single-handedly by Jaryn Moorstrider. The fact that they had returned, and were bold enough to attack a full contingent of Flaming Fist, did not bode well for the Sword Coast.
“Let’s just focus on killing them shall we?” Lystra called back, the rain beginning to fall harder about them. Before Kivan could say any more, she was off, urging Shadowflight into a hard gallop towards the cluster charging them from the road’s righthand side. With a loud curse, Kivan followed suit, urging his own mount towards those on the left.
The rain beating against her face, the wind from her charge taking the hood from her head so that her wet locks streamed behind her, Lystra fearlessly faced down her foe, loosing arrow after arrow almost blindly into their ranks. Though few of her shots hit, and even fewer were fatal, she succeeded in dispersing their ranks enough for her to blitz through unharmed.
Wheeling Shadowflight around, the young ranger slid her bow once more into its holster and drew Skysinger, the blade almost seeming to glow once released from its scabbard.
She and the orcs squared off, the beasts raising their jagged scimitars and axes, their beady, black eyes glaring from their faces appearing as amalgams of simian and porcine bloodlines. Just as both sides readied themselves to charge once more, a high cry from above them caused all gathered to look hither in interest.
Arching down towards them was an enormous raven, its flight cutting through the deluge as it were no more bothered by it than if it existed not at all. Both Lystra and the orcs stood dumbfounded by the bird as it streaked towards them. When it was no more than a handful of feet above the gathered throng, it morphed almost instantaneously into the form of The High Druid Blacktree, his cloak of raven feathers billowing about him, his ashwood staff held aloft. Every muscle in his body was taut and his eyes glowed an electric blue. What Lystra noticed most, however, was his engorged cock, standing straight before him as if it, rather than his staff, would bring death to the orcs below him.
The orcs themselves barely had time to register that it was no longer a bird hurtling towards them before streaks of lightning lanced forth from the druid to strike them. Lystra saw the bolts begin to tear into the orc’s flesh before the electricity hit the water-laden ground about them. The force of the bolts caused a great wave to splash up from the sodden ground, obscuring the ranger’s view. All she was able to perceive through the walls of water were twisting forms, limbs flying from bodies, and the water walls themselves being dyed red with spilled blood.
All of this occurred within an instant and before Lystra knew it all that stood before her were the dismembered remains of twelve orcs and the High Druid himself striding forward towards the battle that yet raged to the left of the road. Shaking herself, the half-elf wheeled Shadowflight in the direction of further conflict as well and charged to aid her allies.
As the High Druid had come, so too had his grove. Lystra saw that, alongside Kivan and Huvertrov astride their steed, two wolves, one a reddish hue, the other of pure, shimmering silver, pranced. Their powerful jaws grabbing hold of, and rending, orc flesh before any could get near enough the madly maneuvering Harpers to deal any real harm.
Leaping Shadowflight over the conjoined corpses of a horse and rider, Lystra landed beside an orc near the edge of the tall grass who bore a crossbow aimed straight for Kivan’s breast. The orc didn’t even have time to register the new threat beside him before Skysinger took his head off in one, clean stroke.
For his part, The High Druid Blacktree took the road in three, long strides. Upon reaching its further side, he crouched down, pushing a hand into the squelching mud of the roadside. Immediately, the ground rippled, and, within seconds, thick, thorny tendrils burst forth from the water-logged earth. These militant roots wrapped themselves about what few orcs remained and squeezed. Thick thorns pierced flesh and encasing girth restricted airflow until the only sound remaining, along with the falling rain, were the pitiful gasps of the beast’s last breaths.
Almost immediately, the rain eased, returning to the steady drizzle it had been before the attack.
Looking about suspiciously, Lystra’s gaze fell to that of the High Druid who was starring at her pointedly. “Fell sorcery indeed,” he said to her, before directing his gaze to the Harpers as they approached, the two large wolves at their side.
“Thank you for the assist, High Druid,” Kivan said, catching his breath from the exertion of combat. “Your arrival was most fortuitous.”
“My arrival was inevitable because I was watching,” the druid said simply, the two wolves padding to his side.
As soon as they were beside the High Druid, one of the wolves, the one with the red fur, morphed into its human form, that of a tall, wild, fiery-haired woman, completely nude and seemingly unaffected by the icy rain.
“You knew that the orcs lay in wait?” Kivan pressed, unaffected by the wolf’s transformation into a wild beauty. “How did you know they remained after the ambush?”
“Because he watched the ambush happen,” Lystra answered the Harper flatly.
Kivan straightened at her words, his mouth twisting in an unpleasant frown, one mirrored by Huvertrov.
“You disapprove,” Criven commented dryly.
“Why aid us and not them?” The Harper motioned to the fallen mercenaries about them.
“Because of me.” Again it was Lystra who spoke, her gaze boring into that of the High Druid.
Turning fully to regard her, the High Druid held her gaze for a long moment, gauging her, before merely dipping his head in reply.
“Come on, Kivan,” she said, her gaze flicking briefly to that of the fiery-haired woman who she knew to be Karma.
With a grimace and a baleful look at the druids, Kivan urged his mount onwards, directing it among the carnage so that he wouldn’t tread on any of the fallen.
“I trust that you will inform Jaryn?” Lystra inquired of the High Druid.
“He will be told,” Criven assured her.
With those words hanging between them, she tugged gently on Shadowflight’s reins, guiding her mount after the Harpers.
The High Druid watched her go for a long moment before lowering his gaze to the mud as his feet. “Karma,” he said. “Find Jaryn and inform him of his lost patrol. Crei, follow his apprentice and the Harpers, ensure they reach their city safely.”
Both woman and wolf nodded their assent before taking off after their given tasks, Karma transforming once more into her lupine form as she bounded away. For his part, the High Druid cast his gaze to the heavens before transforming himself back into his raven form and once more taking flight.
* * * *
“Hail to ye, Ranger, I was hoping one of yer ilk would be along to help our beleaguered little caravan.”
Jaryn lifted his hand in greeting to the words of Forsten Blackpeak as he neared the Dameston Caravan. A quick sweep of them and their wagons lent truth to the dwarf’s words. Multiple arrows bristled the sides of their wagons and more than one of them sat hunched, bandages bright with blood wrapping an assortment of wounds. After introductions were made, the ranger urged Sundril alongside the lead wagon and kept pace, his powerful longbow gripped in one hand, a finger holding a knocked arrow in place.
“Any casualties?” Jaryn asked, peering back to try and gauge the severity of the caravaneer’s wounds.
“Nay,” the large Dameston patriarch said. “Though my boy, Aldren, might not last another night on a wagon.”
“The Friendly Arm Inn is close,” Jaryn assured him. “What assailed you?”
“Can’ be certain given the pitch of the wretched night,” Forsten said, tightening a bandage on his forearm, his crossbow lain across his knees. “From the racket they made my bets on Gnolls, though.”
Jaryn grimaced at his words and Forsten smirked.
“From the sour look on yer gob I’d reckon you know their kind well,” the dwarf said.
“You would reckon right, Master Blackpeak,” the ranger nodded. “Any knowledge of the whereabouts of the second caravan?”
“Nay,” Karl Dameston spoke up. “They were an odd bunch too, though they had a small army with ‘em. Would take a force o’ them cowardly bastards to overrun them.”
Jaryn nodded, keeping to himself his worry of there was a good chance the gnolls had the numbers. Though the fact that they had merely harassed, and not overrun, the Dameston Caravan gave him some hope.
“I’ll guide you to the Inn,” he assured them.
Forsten smiled broadly through his wiry, black beard and Karl Dameston’s relief was evident.
“Good to have ye along,” Forsten said. “Doubt any o’ them yippy bastards would dare attack us with the famous Jaryn Moorstrider in tow!”
Jaryn merely nodded to the dwarf’s praise, though he had to wonder how much longer such words would be spoken of him should these attacks continue.
* * * *
In the early morning hours, a figure stole from a secretive side-entrance of High Hall. Slight of build and wrapped in a well-tailored cloak of grey fur, hemmed in silver filigree, the figure skirted the guards posted at the keep’s gates and blended seamlessly with the early morning traffic on the main avenue.
With long strides, the figure made its way down the avenue, the cloak parting at times to reveal knee-high boots of supple, black leather that clicked audibly on the cobbled street. As it neared the market hub, the figure slipped from the throng of market-goers and into a less populated back street.
Once away from the crowd, the figure drew itself into a shop’s shadowed doorway and removed their hood to reveal the elegant and beautiful features of the drow cleric, Viconia. With practiced movements, she waved a hand before her face, magically transforming her features to that of a pretty, young maid with fair skin and freckles, before striding back out into the rain and continuing on her way.
Before long, she came to a small shop set a few steps off the street, its windows showing an assortment of hanging herb bundles, the weathered sign above the door declaring it an apothecary. Peering about surreptitiously, she made for the shop and pushed her way inside.
A soft bell jingled as she crossed the shop’s threshold where she was emitted into a cramped area lit only by dim lanterns. Boxes and crates of herbs, animal parts, and more arcane objects stood stacked and strewn about in a disorganized fashion and behind the counter a wizened, old gnomish woman sat, her pale eyes rising as if to observe her customer. Despite the gloom within the shop, however, Viconia was able to discern the old Gnome’s nostrils flare as she inhaled the newcomer’s scent.
“Ah, Priestess of Gloom, you have returned to my humble little shop,” the wizened creature wheezed with delight. “What might Mistress Wrinkle do for you this morn?”
Despite herself, Viconia smiled at the old Gnome’s words.
“I seek the ingredients we spoke of at our last meeting, Mistress Wrinkle,” she cooed, gliding across the dust-laden floor to the counter.
“Ah yes, I remember,” Mistress Wrinkle beamed, reaching below the countertop to produce a small cedar box inscribed with a multitude of archaic runes.
“Come all the way from Kara-Tur by way of Thay,” she crooned, stroking the box lovingly with her small, wrinkled hands.
“And they will behave as we discussed?” The Drow Cleric inquired, eyes narrowing as she gazed upon the package.
“Oh yes, provided you brew them as we discussed,” the Gnome replied.
“And the payment was satisfactory?”
The Gnome seemed to hesitate briefly, as if considering charging the Drow more, then, reconsidering, nodded.
“Yes, yes, most satisfactory, Cleric,” she said instead, bobbing her head.
“Good,” Viconia snatched the box and pivoted to leave, making for the door in long strides.
“Oh, and Mistress Wrinkle,” she said, stopping by the door and half-turning to address the shopkeeper. “I feel as though I needn’t say this but, just in case, if word of our interactions were ever to spread, well, there are many shadowed corners in your shop.”
“You needn’t say it,” Mistress Wrinkle said, her features turning grave. “We understand each other perfectly.”
Viconia’s gaze narrowed for but an instant whilst she gazed upon the Gnome and then, with a swish of her cloak, she was out the door and back into the heavy chill air of the rainy street.
Stepping lightly from the shop’s stoop, Viconia made to replace her cowl upon her head when a towering figure stepped into view from the lane and set himself, massive arms crossed, to bar her passage back out onto the street, fur-lined boots spread wide to further lengthen his imposing figure. Looking up into his face, Viconia saw that it was well-chiseled and framed by long, damp locks of dark hair. Shockingly blue eyes stared hungrily down at her and the pommel of a massive greatsword glinted above his right shoulder.
Eyes darting to identify a route of escape, the disguised drow straightened and stepped boldly to meet the man, one hand stashing the cedar box within her cloak while the other began weaving a cantrip.
“Tsk, tsk, Viconia, is that any way to greet an old friend,” the voice was spoken from behind her and made her start. Twisting she beheld a man leaning lazily against the doorframe of the shop as if just recently materializing there. He wore dark-stained studded-leather armor with bandoliers of throwing knives crisscrossing his chest. What identified him to the elf most, however, was his runic, steel full helm with its spined crest.
“Kharne?” The woman blanched, completely forgetting her disguising spell and so allowing it to drop.
If either of the men were surprised that where a comely lass once stood now there was a Dark Elven beauty, neither showed it. If anything, the helmeted man seemed to welcome it and Viconia could almost feel him smiling through his helm.
“Now that’s better isn’t it,” he crooned. “How long has it been, Viconia? A decade? More?”
“I haven’t kept track, Kharne,” she spoke defensively, regaining her composure from her initial shock. “What is it you want?”
“Perhaps just to catch up with an old friend?” He offered, stepping from the shop’s stoop and bringing himself closer to her. “Was our parting truly so awful that it warrants such anxious renewal?”
“As I recall our last parting amounted to you leaving me in a burning tower so that you might beat the Harpers to the prize,” she said disdainfully.
“I knew you could take care of yourself.”
“I almost died,” she spat. “All so that you might better serve your masters.”
“I have no masters, Viconia,” the mercenary spoke in dangerous tones. In a moment, however, his voice took on a more friendly tone. “Might we speak somewhere more private?” He asked. “I’d hate for someone to happen upon us here and we be forced to kill them…or allow Dorn to have his way with them.”
The large man grinned distastefully at Kharne’s words, eliciting a sickened glare from Viconia.
“Very well,” the Drow allowed. “But if you let that monster of yours anywhere near me I will bring whatever rathole you currently call home down on top of us faster than even you could make an escape.”
“Fair enough,” the mercenary inclined his head. “Actually Dorn has other business to attend to anyway. On your way, Dorn, and bring the package to the usual spot.”
The massive man nodded and made his leave, striding away towards the market hub as Kharne directed Viconia down a more secluded lane.
They walked in silence, the unlikely pair, down an abandoned sidestreet beneath the cloud-laden sky. Viconia was aware of the nearness to her at which Kharne walked and she hated herself for finding his presence comforting, even after all this time, even after what he had done to her. It was he, after all, who had rescued her from certain death as she fled the Underdark. It was he who had taught her the words of the common tongue of the surface world, he who had nurtured and welcomed her into his company. He who had first made love to her in a way not obligatory nor violent. And lastly, it was he she had loved for years until their parting, she in a puddle of her own blood, and he running to beat the Harper Master Jherek to the prize. That was long ago, all of it was long ago, and yet in his presence now she couldn’t help but revert back to who she had been upon their first meeting, an orphan in an unkind, alien land, and he the only one who could make sense of it to her.
‘Foolishness,’ she chided herself quietly. She was a Cleric of Shar now, the mistress of darkness. It was only for her embrace that she truly yearned. And yet, with him walking so close behind her, she couldn’t help but feel safer than she had in a long time.
“In here,” he bid her, shaking her from her thoughts, and directing her in the side door of a small warehouse off of the Hub proper.
Nodding, she passed through the doorway as he opened it for her, emitting her to the large space that was the warehouse interior, most of which was crammed with crates and barrels stacked to the vaulted ceiling. Water dripped from a myriad of cracks in the building’s infrastructure but the area he led her to, pushing gently past her, was dry and well lit by a handful of lamps and candles placed strategically about. In the center of the space was a rough-hewn table with a bottle of wine and two goblets set upon a silver platter at its center.
“This seems too well planned to be a chance encounter,” she chided, glancing about the area to try and spy hidden agents.
“Nothing about our encounter was by chance, I assure you,” was his reply as he strode to the table. Pausing as he noticed her reluctance, he said, “there is no one here but us. If you seek my death then we can, by all means, hash things out here and now and see who carries more power, your goddess, or my blade. Or, we can speak as we once did, as equals. Just you and I, Viconia.”
“How do you know we won’t be disturbed?” She asked, stepping a bit further into the space where the table sat.
“I own the place,” he said simply, turning to face her and spreading his palms as if to encompass the entirety of the warehouse.
“Prove it,” she challenged.
“You wish to see the deed?”
“Prove that we are alone.”
He nodded, understanding her intrinsically, immediately lifting his gloved hands to his helm.
She watched, breath bated, as he lifted to mantle from his features. Beneath was the face of a man many would describe as ordinary, were it not so heavily scarred. Kharne’s face was pale, given the fact he always wore the helm, though not sickly. His cheeks were pitted with pock-marks and he wore his dark hair trimmed short along his scalp, though several scars marked areas where hair would no longer grow. Through all of this, his gray eyes shone. Eyes belonging to one well-bred, that burned with an intensity that even now, after all these years, stirred the Drow Cleric’s loins.
“Satisfied?” He asked her, and she nodded, unable to tear her gaze from the face she knew so well. Yes, he had aged a bit since she had seen him last but not as much as she had expected. Perhaps he had access to some elixir of youth, she mused, or else the sheer intensity that was him kept his body from betraying him to age. Either way, she had to admit, he looked good.
Forcing her eyes to once more peruse her surroundings, the Drow began a slow walk around the table as the mercenary poured them wine.
“If this were not a chance encounter then am I to believe that you’ve been spying on me?” She asked, facing him, her arms crossed.
“Spying? No. But when a Drow woman matching your description is brought before a Duke of Baldur’s Gate people talk,” he replied, taking one glass and leaving the other for her on the table.
“And when she is subsequently banished from said city people stay silent?”
“It was a transparent ruse, one I saw through all too easily, and, as I knew that I would be returning to Baldur’s Gate, I figured it was high time we get reacquainted.”
“And that has nothing to do with my nearness to Duke Eltan?” She saw no use in attempting to hide her relationship with the Duke when it was quite obvious Kharne already knew of it.
“It was but icing on the cake,” he smirked at her over the rim of his glass.
“So is it Eltan you are here to kill? Or is there something else in High Hall that has caught your eye?” She asked, stepping to the table and lifting the wine glass from its surface, raising it to her lips whilst keeping her gaze on his.
“Eltan is a substantial obstacle to my plans,” Kharne confirmed. “Killing him will be necessary to adequately destabilize the region.”
“But why?” Viconia pressed, stepping slowly ‘round the table. “Another will only take his place as Commander of the Flaming Fist. Killing Entar will surely be the more widely felt play.”
Kharne shook his head. “Entar is but a figurehead. It is my belief that replacing him will be a more swift process than Eltan. Entar is a beacon of good, a lawful figure and they are a dime a dozen in places like Waterdeep and Neverwinter. I even have it on good authority that a potential replacement for the Duke is on his way as we speak.”
“Entar means to step down?” Viconia was surprised despite herself. “Why would he do such a thing?”
“To be a father?” Kharne offered. “Since his wife’s death his distance from his daughter is something he has felt all the more keenly as her hatred for him has no other outlet than being thrown in his face, a face not so used to abuse.”
“I see,” the Drow tapped her glass with an elegant finger idly. “But you killing Eltan will no doubt delay his departure. Why not wait for Entar to step down before slaying the Mercenary Commander.”
“Two birds are better than one. Also, other pieces are moving at a pace which I must match.”
“But, as I said, killing Eltan will certainly delay Entar’s stepping down.”
“Not if we give him another motive to depart the city?”
Viconia mulled his words over for but a moment before her eyes widened.
“Skye!” She whispered, eyes darting to meet his for confirmation.
“Skye,” Kharne nodded. “The loss of Entar’s daughter will be his undoing.”
“But killing her will simply unhinge the man, surely,” she argued. “What if her death only serves to galvanize him to further serve the city.”
“Oh, I said nothing of killing,” Kharne shook his head. “But if she were to go missing what else could a desperate father seeking to cling to what’s left of his family do but give chase?”
Viconia grinned at his words despite herself. “Positively wicked,” she crooned. “Glad to see your time away hasn’t dulled your senses. What other moving pieces are they who hasten your action?”
His smirk returning, Kharne set his glass upon a nearby crate.
“Not so fast, my dear. First, you must agree to aid me in my scheme before a divulge its full scope to you.”
“In what way would I aid you?”
Viconia blanched, though she quickly realized the sense in his words. Who else but the one who shared his bed had the best chance at slaying him?
“He remains distrustful of me,” she said after a moment’s thought. “He is a skilled enough leader to know that it is those closest to you who can do you the most ill.”
“I have every faith in you,” Kharne murmured, drawing close to her. She retreated to the table and he pursued, trapping her between the wooden surface and his sturdy frame. Leaning in, he placed both hands flat on the tabletop on either side of her, bringing them close enough that their noses almost touched and she could smell the sweet wine on his breath.
“What say you?” He whispered. “Shall you and I join forces once more? You don’t belong here, Viconia. A pretty little bird in a cage is all you are to him. You are a mistress of shadow, a creature of dusk and moonlight. Aid me in this scheme and leave this place, and when you do you can go your own way, I will even do all that is within my power to aid you in your course. Or stay at my side that we might reap the rewards of our misdeeds.”
Her gaze never left his while he spoke and when he was done a wicked smile tugged the corners of her full lips.
“All right, Kharne,” she murmured back, her eyes falling to his lips. Leaning in as though to kiss him, she drew away at the last moment and breathed, “I am done being a good girl, let’s do something evil.”
With those words between them, she lurched in, crushing her mouth to his and he welcomed her fully, his strong arms wrapping about her, pulling her body fully against his.
As their bodies pressed together, she felt the hardness of his manhood pressing against her and even that was enough to slicken the lips of her sex. Immediately, her hands fell to his trousers and began their eager task of freeing him from their confines. In response, he gripped the front of her robes and, as easy as if they were made of lace, tore her bodice open, allowing her naked breasts to spill forth into his gloved hands. She gasped as the roughness of the leather teased her hard, dark nipples just as she drew his fully erect and burning cock free of his pants. Drawing her fingertips up along it’s heated length, she flicked her thumb across its swollen tip, savoring the slickness of the precum already oozing forth.
Pushing him back, she pulled herself up onto the tabletop and spread her legs wide, parting her robe so that he might get a clearer view of her naked, glistening pussy. With a growl, he came to her, crushing himself against her once more, his phallus penetrating her deeply in one, quick motion, eliciting an animal-like groan from her, even as his lips fell hungrily upon the perfect skin of her throat. One hand cupping her ass, the other lifting the opposite leg to hook within the crook of his arm, he began to thrust, slowly yet deeply, his cock filling her as perfectly as it had always done. She had to admit to herself, even through the fog of pleasure he’d enveloped her in, that his cock within her felt like the closest thing to home she had ever known.
Far above them, secreted in magically conjured invisibility, Nook observed their lovemaking with a detached air. Carefully ensuring that this piece of the plan had fallen into place, before, stealthily, making her exit through a nearby window, thus leaving the far-flung duo to make their long-awaited reacquaintance.