AelKennyr Rhiano
Above was a roof of stars, winking brightly in a cold sky. A wall of trees gave the illusion of protection, and the small spluttering fire the semblance of heat. A thin wind wove through the trees and teased at the pitiful fire, made of wet and green wood. It was the boy who got the fire started and nurtured it carefully until there was a smoky blaze fit enough to roast the fat rats he speared. He saw the tracks of other animals. Deer, squirrels and rabbits, the boy identified, and tomorrow he will have the elf boy hunt for them. The one time swords master reached down, picked up a bit of log and placed it on the fire. The flames danced wildly about the wood, reaching for the new fuel with greedy flame finger.
As he pulled back his hand, he turned it, palm up, and flexed and curled his hand into a fist. The hand was strong, callused, still able to wield a sword, thrust a dagger, and hurl an axe, all with deadly force and accuracy. He opened his hand and flexed his fingers, turning his hand over and back. The weak orange glow of the flames licked reflections over the inky skin, still firm and tight. Before he was resigned to plunging this hand into sudsy water to scrub stone flooring, or into a sand barrel to fish out armor scraped clean of rust, this hand was bathed in the hot blood of enemies, and he long have missed the sticky sweetness of it.
A few feet away, his companion shifted in his bedroll of cloak and horse blanket, resettling into a soft snore. Red eyes regarded the lump of fabric. Boy, he thinks to himself, dropped his arm. Elf. Enemy. Pale skin and watery, useless eyes most of them. Pretty flesh trinkets, marred copies of Drow perfection. That is he has has been taught, what he has believed. What he has seen all his life. Humans had the thirst for killing, for living, for see the enemy naked and cowering, begging to be spared, but humans were weaker even than the elves. Clever, stinking animals who foul their own dens, which they make cunningly of materials at hand. But elves...no..they are stronger, faster, longer lived, and smarter than humans, but their race had water for blood. Too often in exchange between elves and Drow, they have been broken by the force of the Drow fury and hunger. Rare has been the elven enemy who could take him on, and none who bested him.
Then this is this one. This pale skinned, arrogant, green-eyed male elf-child. He was different. Had this one been properly reared, given a sword and dagger as soon as he was able to walk, he would now be an enemy such as to make the Drow's heart sing, his blood surge and pound, things low tighten in the body with a sweet deliciousness. This one would have been the enemy who slices through friend and foe alike once his eyes lock upon yours to meet you in the dance of the blade. And after giving every ounce of his prowess and strength to either take your life from you in a gush of blood, or to offer up his blood to you, more intimate than any lover, more complete than any coupling.
But the elf was not given that training, and though he takes to all taught him, he is not the warrior he was meant to be. YET. Not yet. The Drow hears in the distance the cry of a wolf and listens to see if any animal has braved to come closer. If any were here to ask him why he saved the child of the elves, a slave of lust and deep cravings, he would say for the promise of the warrior within, for here was one who has given himself over to all that Lloth promises her children. This male elf has become a child of Lloth, in all but skin. A gift from their goddess that the Matron was too blind to see or use. As she had been too blind to see and use him. She was vain, petty, more mindful of what was between her thighs than what would raise her people up and ensure their survival.
He remembered the smell of fire and flesh roasting, and remembers how sweet and savory of cooking flesh. There was no difference between the smell of cooked Drow and roasted horse or cow. For days, neither he nor the boy touched meat, unspoken between them the foulness of that memory. He seduced back to eating of flesh by painting verbal pictures of the Matron herself, being trussed and prepared as a chicken or pheasant, and roasted upon an open fire while still alive. The elf child, once he understood enough of what the Drow was telling him, gave a toothsome smile, and that night tore into the flesh of two doves with relish, the greasy juices rolling down his chin.
The Drow remembered how the underdark shuddered, and moaned, the defenses shifting and collapsing as an unseen enemy brought fiery death to them all. As he and the boy climbed out of the rumble, blinking blearily at a smoke filled lit sky, he looked about, but saw no one else emerging from the wreckage. He does not know what happened, and was long past curiosity to know. Now leagues away, with no obvious pursuit, his own thought is survival, a new home that affords some measure of safety, and training the elf child.
But in this moment, they must be up and away, and they must cover all tracks they have been here. This the boy was most proficient at doing so. So he will turn the elf child out of his bedding, set him about to break the camp while he snatched a brief nap before they set out again, their main thought to leave leagues between them and the stone cairn the Underdark has now become. He walks over and kicks the side of the mound of cloth and is rewarded by a grunt and movement. "Here, up," he grunts at his companion. "UP!" And he barks orders to the elf, who throws back the cloak and blanket and glares at him sullenly.
"I have saved the child, Goddess," the Drow tells Lloth in his mind. "Tell me how to serve you now. Use me. I am yours to use." As he surrenders to sleep, he thinks he hears a soft purring sound of laughter and a well pleased voice full of promises, stirring his manhood even as he drifts off, answer him, "I shall you use you, my slave. I shall drink your blood, eat your flesh, but in return I shall give you all you crave, all you want, and all you need. Everything and more. So much more."
As he pulled back his hand, he turned it, palm up, and flexed and curled his hand into a fist. The hand was strong, callused, still able to wield a sword, thrust a dagger, and hurl an axe, all with deadly force and accuracy. He opened his hand and flexed his fingers, turning his hand over and back. The weak orange glow of the flames licked reflections over the inky skin, still firm and tight. Before he was resigned to plunging this hand into sudsy water to scrub stone flooring, or into a sand barrel to fish out armor scraped clean of rust, this hand was bathed in the hot blood of enemies, and he long have missed the sticky sweetness of it.
A few feet away, his companion shifted in his bedroll of cloak and horse blanket, resettling into a soft snore. Red eyes regarded the lump of fabric. Boy, he thinks to himself, dropped his arm. Elf. Enemy. Pale skin and watery, useless eyes most of them. Pretty flesh trinkets, marred copies of Drow perfection. That is he has has been taught, what he has believed. What he has seen all his life. Humans had the thirst for killing, for living, for see the enemy naked and cowering, begging to be spared, but humans were weaker even than the elves. Clever, stinking animals who foul their own dens, which they make cunningly of materials at hand. But elves...no..they are stronger, faster, longer lived, and smarter than humans, but their race had water for blood. Too often in exchange between elves and Drow, they have been broken by the force of the Drow fury and hunger. Rare has been the elven enemy who could take him on, and none who bested him.
Then this is this one. This pale skinned, arrogant, green-eyed male elf-child. He was different. Had this one been properly reared, given a sword and dagger as soon as he was able to walk, he would now be an enemy such as to make the Drow's heart sing, his blood surge and pound, things low tighten in the body with a sweet deliciousness. This one would have been the enemy who slices through friend and foe alike once his eyes lock upon yours to meet you in the dance of the blade. And after giving every ounce of his prowess and strength to either take your life from you in a gush of blood, or to offer up his blood to you, more intimate than any lover, more complete than any coupling.
But the elf was not given that training, and though he takes to all taught him, he is not the warrior he was meant to be. YET. Not yet. The Drow hears in the distance the cry of a wolf and listens to see if any animal has braved to come closer. If any were here to ask him why he saved the child of the elves, a slave of lust and deep cravings, he would say for the promise of the warrior within, for here was one who has given himself over to all that Lloth promises her children. This male elf has become a child of Lloth, in all but skin. A gift from their goddess that the Matron was too blind to see or use. As she had been too blind to see and use him. She was vain, petty, more mindful of what was between her thighs than what would raise her people up and ensure their survival.
He remembered the smell of fire and flesh roasting, and remembers how sweet and savory of cooking flesh. There was no difference between the smell of cooked Drow and roasted horse or cow. For days, neither he nor the boy touched meat, unspoken between them the foulness of that memory. He seduced back to eating of flesh by painting verbal pictures of the Matron herself, being trussed and prepared as a chicken or pheasant, and roasted upon an open fire while still alive. The elf child, once he understood enough of what the Drow was telling him, gave a toothsome smile, and that night tore into the flesh of two doves with relish, the greasy juices rolling down his chin.
The Drow remembered how the underdark shuddered, and moaned, the defenses shifting and collapsing as an unseen enemy brought fiery death to them all. As he and the boy climbed out of the rumble, blinking blearily at a smoke filled lit sky, he looked about, but saw no one else emerging from the wreckage. He does not know what happened, and was long past curiosity to know. Now leagues away, with no obvious pursuit, his own thought is survival, a new home that affords some measure of safety, and training the elf child.
But in this moment, they must be up and away, and they must cover all tracks they have been here. This the boy was most proficient at doing so. So he will turn the elf child out of his bedding, set him about to break the camp while he snatched a brief nap before they set out again, their main thought to leave leagues between them and the stone cairn the Underdark has now become. He walks over and kicks the side of the mound of cloth and is rewarded by a grunt and movement. "Here, up," he grunts at his companion. "UP!" And he barks orders to the elf, who throws back the cloak and blanket and glares at him sullenly.
"I have saved the child, Goddess," the Drow tells Lloth in his mind. "Tell me how to serve you now. Use me. I am yours to use." As he surrenders to sleep, he thinks he hears a soft purring sound of laughter and a well pleased voice full of promises, stirring his manhood even as he drifts off, answer him, "I shall you use you, my slave. I shall drink your blood, eat your flesh, but in return I shall give you all you crave, all you want, and all you need. Everything and more. So much more."