AelKennyr Rhiano and Gwindolyn Spiritor
A month. A complete month of this elf in her home. The very thought put her jaw into a jarring clench. She eases herself back to where she needs to be by remembering the gains; the chaos he would inject into his homeland, the poison to the surface. She growls away her hatred of him in order to enter the room she had quarantined him into with an easy, graceful smile on her face. She will make him believe she is in love with him. She will dangle her very sumptuous body before his lusting eyes to bring him to her cause. She shudders just outside his door to put on the final layer of deception. She pushes the door open to enter once more. A plate of food in one hand, she looks into the torch-lit room.
Nimros looks up as the door swings open, one of the tomes that was on the bookshelf in his left hand while he turns the pages with his right. He reckoned that he had spent a number of weeks here in this "underdark," as she called it, but the actual length of time spent remains fuzzy. A month? Two? He has finally adjusted to the rhythm of life here, but how many days were spent doing that, he does not know. His eyes take in her smile, the way she moves as she glides in the room, the clothes she wears. He rises from his reclining position on the bed, tosses the book down on the cover, and crosses the room to her, a hand reaching to stroke the side of her neck. "You've been gone a long time," he says, his voice a little petulant.She steps into the room completely as he rises from the bed and crosses to her. She has set the plate down on the desk by the time his hand reaches up to her neck. The little touches still unnerve her, even after a month. She is still in complete control of her body. She has survived the treacherous, backstabbing culture for nearly two centuries now - a feat when one is a Matron, especially such a young Matron. She lifts her smile to him. Her blue eyes touched with the very thin lines of red look up from the desk to him. She smooths the web like silk strands artfully arranged into a skirt and top with bits of red silk to highlight both the white strands and her ebony skin. Her hair tossed to the side, leaving one pointed, unadorned ear visible.
The plate makes a small sound as she set it down on the desk, and his eyes follow the movement as she does. His stomach has adjusted to the food, here. He has been down here long enough that even the meat that once smelled rank to his nostrils is now enough to make his mouth water. But as she presses against him, the warmth of her body pressed against his, his thoughts slide away from food, even as his other arm wraps possessively around her waist, pulling her closer still. Leaning down, he kisses her exposed ear. "Surely the drow believe in rest from their labors," he murmurs huskily. "You are often gone when I awake, and I do not see you again until late in the night. You must have great responsibilities." He slowly strokes her neck as he speaks. "And I have grown bored to the point of reading that thick dwarven tome."
Ilharess nuzzles into the kiss. She clothes herself with his arms although she would prefer to torture him rather than to kiss him. She leans forward and places a soft kiss from her full, dark lips onto his chest. "I do not care to wake you. You look so peaceful when you sleep." A peace does surround him when he sleeps: it is a peace she dreams of shattering. "All have duties in the house. I am no exception." She downplays her role once more. Her mind begins to weigh the need to turn him against her desire to keep him out of her world. She knows full well that she needs to integrate him into her life soon, but she dreads it. She looks to the dwarvish tome. She didn't know dwarfish languages. She had no clue what language it was. She put it in here to make the room look normal. It was but a book end before that. She seeks diversion in that. "What is the tome on?"
Nimros feels her press her body closer still and slides his hand down her neck and over her shoulder. He shrugs at her question and answers distractedly. "Oddly enough, dwarven love poetry." The lie falls from his lips easily, but the truth is that if he truly told her what it was, he had a strong suspicion that he would find the book missing the next day. He found the language difficult, but not impossible to read, and for a brief moment, he was actually grateful that he has been subjected to all those long, boring hours studying it. But for now, he dissembles and quotes her a line of dwarven poetry:
"Thy hair, it shines like newly beaten copperIlharess shivers as the poetry grate over her nerves, the horrid imagery of a female dwarf with beard, no height and no figure. The stout little beasts remind her of hairy boxes on legs. Their stench was one of either the stale sweat of too much labor and no bathing or the fermenting foods from ales and foods caught in fuzzy faces. She holds back her last meal as it desires to be free of her stomach. She uses that as an excuse to press into him a bit more. "Such curious little beasts" was all she said in response to the horrid poem. A spider crawls out from her hair and onto the bared half of her head. She makes no move to recognize its presence. It is as the light summer breeze to an elf, constant and known, unnoticed. She makes a note to have that book burned lest some future victim should be able to translate and start spouting it.
thy beard, as sweet smelling as the the scent of gold, newly minted
Oh, my little wife, how i adore thy stout waist
my axe maid, my own."
Nimros feels her shiver and rubs both her arms. "You are chilled," he said, rubbing briskly. He pulls back a little when he sees the spider, his eyes widening at first and then narrowing. "Horrid poetry," he says as his arms wrap around her again in a possessive embrace. "But it helps the hours to pass." He sighs heavily. "You promised I would be able to practice my swordsmanship again, this time with an instructor," he reminds her.
Ilharess did not notice the spider on her flesh, but she did notice his response to it. With a small pause, she takes a moment to notice, and she almost laughs when she pieces it together. She feels him pull back into her, and she knows she has to step forward with things. He presents her with the next logical step, something she hates him even more for. She smiles to him with a false sweetness almost as putrid as that dwarven poem. She offers her lips for a kiss as she says. "So shall it be. Tomorrow. Be ready." Her tone is one of purring seduction, not her the usual commanding tone.
Leaning down, he brushes her lips with his, and for a second his embrace tightens." Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow, always tomorrow," he complains. But he crushes her to him and kisses her fiercely. "One day, 'tomorrow' will not be enough. " Pulling away from her lips, he drops his hands away from her and crosses to the desk. He trails a finger along the top of it to the plate. "Have you eaten as well?" he asks, looking up and over at her, his lips compressed into a thin line. "I'll share if you haven't."
Ilharess might have really enjoyed his kiss and crushing embrace had he been a drow. She resists the natural urges to bring him pain for such boldness. Instead, she lets him walk to his dinner, indulging his pout. "I haven't eaten yet. You see, I have put extra food on your plate tonight." The spider on her head continues to crawl, making its way along the very delicate ear. Drow ears are sensitive as are elven ears, yet she still makes no response to the soft movements of eight legs.
Nodding, he picks up the plate and crosses to sit on the bed, tucking a long leg up under him. He nods to an empty spot beside him. "Come, then," he says, his eyes sweeping over her, a look he would have given no woman a month ago. "Let's break our fast," he says. He watches her every move, sees the spider as it descends and brushes aside the doubt its presence raises in him. "I want to hear more about daily life here. I see no one and hear nothing. Do you do that because your people would find me..." he pauses, popping a piece of meat into his mouth, "offensive?"
Ilharess moves over to the bed with him. She takes the empty seat he offers. She sits back and lets him feel as if he had some control, feeding her as he desires. Of course it is just a delusion, she could eat by leaving the room in an instant. She gives him this feeling to help sate the feelings his being captive will bring on him, help keep him subdued. She hears the question. Like the elves, she can hear exceptionally well, so even the food in his mouth does not hinder her from hearing the full question. She pauses and smiles softly to him. "Perhaps I am greedy and care not to share you with those around. They might take to take you for themselves." She leans in and opens her mouth slightly, eyes up to him, waiting.
Nimros watches as she sits back, and, taking a piece of meat, guides it to her full lips, watching as she opens her mouth, his tongue licking his bottom lip. His green eyes lift up, with reluctance to her face, and briefly he wonders at the explanation, how smoothly the words flow from her, but the smile takes his breath away. So exotic she was. Her walk, her stance when standing, the way she speaks, so foreign to everything he has ever known. And he wants to believe what she is saying. "No one can take me from you, " he says. "You must know that by now." He reaches out and traces the line of her jaw. "You are everything," he adds, his voice thick.
Ilharess accepts the food from his fingers. Her lips embrace the tips and suck softly to gather all the juices from them. Her red lined blue eyes locks on his green ones the entire time. She smiles hoping he sees gratitude and security not the smug victory she feels. "I do. It is why I am here night after night." This is truth, as she would have dispensed with him by now if it were not. Her voice is again soft and purring. A hand trails up Nimros's leg as she chews. When she finishes, she opens her lips and waits yet again.
It is not food that meets her open mouth but his lips as Nimros, spurred by her touch, pushes aside the plate and closes the distance between them. His arns wrap around her, one hand reaching up to wrap his fingers in her hair. Pushing her down against the pillows, he rasps, before he gives way to the desire rising up in him, "Make sure you do not forget." He kisses her again, drowning in his want for her, but still cognizant to remind, "Tomorrow. Do not forget again."
The night ends as each night before has ended: two bodies collapsed in exhaustion, drifting to sleep entwined. If the agenda were not so insidious, it would be a very sweet picture to behold. The next morning also followed routine: she was gone before he awoke. The next day, however, provided some changes as a male showed up to take Nimros sparring. Not teaching, but more playing with him, testing and teasing him. It was only a few hours, but a few hours of change in a month of monotony.
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