Sex and the Spellplague Ch. 02

The drow, so painfully deprived, cried out loudly as her inflamed sex was touched by something other than her hand or her toy. Her skin was on fire; sweet, delicious, painful fire that was going to be quenched by this strong woman's tongue. Lura ripped her dress to expose her black skin to the cold night air. It electrified her. She pinched and tweaked her nipples so hard it hurt, but in her desperate state, the pain, no matter how bad, only served to further her need. And Ambrusia's tongue was masterful, better than Mikhail's had ever been, as it danced and flicked over her folds and her clit.

But Ambrusia had a surprised. Her dragonborn blood came with one advantage. Ambrusia pressed her tongue against Lura's fuckhole and slowly began to engorge. Lura gasped in shock, then cried out in pure bliss as the tongue expanded slightly and grew longer and longer inside her. It pressed against her cervix and halted. Then, to Lura's utter delight, the tongue began to undulate inside her, rippling and roiling inside her sodden snatch. She'd never been tonguefucked in such a way before, and her body quivered like gelatin. Lura grasped handfuls of Ambrusia's midnight hair, pressing the woman's face against her cunt while Ambrusia plundered her molten core with her amazing tongue. Lura couldn't, wouldn't wait. She quivered and shook, tears poured from her eyes in bliss, her voice was caught in her clenched throat and her screams took the form of choked gasps. Her orgasm hit her like a meteor storm. Her body jolted, spasmed. Her legs clenched on Ambrusia's head as if every muscle had tightened and she momentarily worried that she might crush the dragonborn's skull. Then everything went slack as a flood of her sexual nectar poured out of her cunt. Ambrusia locked her eyes on Lura, drinking in all of the nectar as it flooded and overflowed her mouth. It flooded down her neck and soaked her white gown so that the fabric clung to her powerful frame, making it invisible and exposing her massive tits.

And still, somehow, Ambrusia held Lura aloft, her tongue sliding out of her pussy only to jam right back in. It began to piston in and out of her. Lura felt as if all her needs had flown away as the thick, long tongue fucked her cunt the way no cock had ever fucked her before. Now she could cry out in bliss, scream in ecstasy. Her tear streaked face took on a maniacal expression as she cackled in glee. "Oh, by the Gods, fuck yes Ambrusia," Lura shouted down at her dragonborn lover. "Fuck, you dragonborn goddess, fuck my cunt with that wonderful tongue of yours. Oh!" Ambrusia thrust in particularly deep, touching the limit of Lura's capacity and causing her to lurch forward. Ambrusia simply pushed her back against the wall, looking up at the drow's face, even as Lura held her hair and stared down at her possessively. "Fuck my cunt," she demanded.

Ambrusia complied with gusto, a savage look on her face. She held Lura's hips and jerked her forward as her tongue jammed in, then pulled her away, against the wall, when it slithered out. This continued for an unknown amount of time, with Lura shouting down at Ambrusia wickedly sexy things and Ambrusia doing everything in her considerable strength to bring her drow mistress to another orgasm. She was rewarded promptly. Lura seized up again, and her pussy clenched harder than it had ever before. She let out one long, gravelly moan as her orgasm hit her again and again. She clenched repeatedly on the writhing tongue as her orgasm chained into two, three, four, and five orgasms. When her body finally relaxed, Ambrusia's tongue began to return to its normal size. She lowered Lura so that she cradled the drow in her strong arms.

Lura purred, nuzzling her head against Ambrusia's shoulder. "Take me to where you are staying, my dear," Lura said. "I wish for you to hold me tonight and sleep with me."

"As you wish, Mistress," Ambrusia said.

*****

Mikhail found Greta sitting in her room, huddled up on her bed rocking back and forth, quietly weeping. He rushed to her side, sitting next to her and putting his arm around her as if to comfort her. She profusely muttered apologies to him, and he understood. Lura was clearly not acting herself, and even he was taken aback by her actions. The Lura he knew would have sidled up behind Greta and joined in the action.

"It's ok, Greta," Mikhail said quietly. "Lura is just overworked and not herself. The stress of things has taken a great toll on her. You did nothing wrong, nothing Lura would not have done herself had she been in your shoes, and she knows that. I'll make sure she's ok in the morning, ok?"

"Ok," Greta said, wiping her face with her hands. "Will you stay with me tonight, Mikhail? I don't need sex or anything, I just want someone to lay with since Varla is with Iliara now. Nights have become...lonely."

Mikhail smiled, completely understanding. "Certainly, my dear," he said as they lay underneath thick covers.

*****

Matron Margaret, the ranking cleric of Chauntea, goddess of home, hearth, and agriculture, was in a foul mood. Normally, she could count on Lura to aid her at nights when she went out to conjure food and drink for the hungry refugees, but the drow was not in sight. "Drow," she muttered under her breath as she moved to the next camp of refugees. "Typical."

She was not fat by any means, but her breasts were ample and had fed several children, her own and otherwise, and showed several decades of age, and her hips were wide from several childbirths. The cleric of Chauntea had other concerns greater than her physical appearance, unlike the seemingly flighty drow that called herself a cleric. She replaced her budding scowl with a warm smile as grateful refugees greeted her. She knelt with them, listened to their stories despite her limited time, and then conjured them a steaming bowl of soup. It was hardly bigger than the average bowl at the Dreaming Dragon and would be split between six people, one of which a rather hefty man. She was disheartened that she could do no more, told them such, and moved on.

The next camp, marked by a small campfire, was at least fifty paces away, and the light from the previous camp was diminished enough that she could see up to the sparsely clouded sky. She closed her eyes, falling to her knees, and began whispering to Chauntea, who she believed was listening to her. Her meditations were interrupted by the sound of heavy footfalls and ragged breathing. She opened her eyes and cast them toward darkness, away from the city. Margaret could make out a humanoid figure, but not much else.

"Who goes there?" she asked. The figure dropped suddenly to one knee. She stood with haste and quickly walked over to him. The cleric had almost arrived when the figure stood tall, much taller than her. Almost seven feet tall. She fell back several steps and looked up at the firm jaw, unkempt black hair, and massive chest. "P-please, don't hurt me," she said. He was a barbarian, and likely Uthgardt, who have an anti-civilization attitude. Then the man fell to a knee again, and she could see in the scant moonlight a bright red splotch on white cloth wrapped tightly around the man's abdomen. He was bleeding profusely from his ribs.

"I...I need Lura," he said in a ragged breath.

Margaret glared at him and didn't respond for a moment, but his pleading gaze struck her motherly heart, and she knelt next to him. She whispered some words and put her hands to the man's ribs. What little divine power she had left in her stopped the bleeding, but only for the moment.

"My thanks," he said, his voice sounding a bit more firm. He stood and Margaret led him toward the city proper. It caused many strange glances but none acted on it. They all knew Margaret hadn't finished her rounds, but this man looked like he was in dire straits. Unfortunately, such kindness was not universal. The barbarian leaned heavily on the sturdy woman, and even though she struggled mightily, she managed to assist his walk. Then several men, gaunt from hunger and depression, stepped in front of the duo.

"What's he so special for?" one asked in an unskilled diction. "He ain't no better'n the rest of us, and we were here first off. Let him down and come feed us, yeah?"

"No," Margaret said firmly, as if scolding a younger child. "He requires medical attention and my powers are all but drained. All I have left is for food. Be patient, go back to your camps, and I will be with you sooner."

"Maybe ye send out the black girl," the man said with a leer. "She's got a purty little mouth and I'd like to have me a piece of her backside." His comrades, dullards to the last, cheered and made raunchy slurs at the drow. And this pricked the barbarian's ire. He stood fully away from the cleric, staring down all six men. Some started backing away, but their leader stopped them. "He's got his self stabbed good, he did. Ain't know way no man can take six with that kind of wound."

But no barbarian counted for any single, average men. Even their young could be counted as 2 men when enraged on the battlefield. And this barbarian was a titan among these men. They came at him in pairs, and his massive hands reached out, grabbed them by the skulls, and crushed them together. Two more flanked him and charged, attempting a "high-low" tackle, but they bounced off his solid frame. One landed on his feet, only to be crushed by a might right fist. The other was on his knees and fell slobbering and bleeding after the barbarian's knee dislocated his jaw. That left only the leader and his last crony.

They began to back away, but two great strides put the barbarian right in front of them. He grabbed the leader by his neck and lifted him so that their faces were level. This was to say, the man was suspended by his neck two feet off the ground. "Lay eyes on the drow in any way other than grateful, and I will tear you limb from limb. I will cast your bones to the four winds. I will erase your existence from this world completely. Understand?"

The man nodded enthusiastically and was dropped unceremoniously to the ground in a heap. Then, a wooden rod of some sort slammed into his injured ribs. The pain would have sent a lesser man to his knees, but it only enraged the barbarian. He turned to the astonished attacker and lifted him from the ground by his legs and arms. He spun around, whipping the smaller man like a rag doll, and launched him a dozen feet into a throng of people.

He looked at Margaret. "Lura?" he asked even as fresh blood began to drip down the side of his leg. Margaret nodded and hurried him along, unable to stop the bleeding this time. The barbarian began to feel light-headed and eventually began stumbling through the streets of Everlund, Margaret at her side, until they reached the front door of the Dreaming Dragon.

*****

It was late, even for Benefast. As the proprietor of his tavern, he was used to being up, sometimes until dawn, but he was exhausted now in the small hours of the night. Many of the patrons were retiring to their rented rooms, and the rest were slowly making their way to the exit, at the halfling's urging. The last serving girl bent down to kiss Benefast on the cheek with a smile (offering the tired, but eager, halfling an ample view of her magically augmented breasts) and dropped a leather pouch with his share of her tips into his palm. She turned to leave, almost reaching the door, before the massive barbarian fell through, blood pouring through his wrapping and out of his mouth. He crawled over to a booth and laid on the table. It creaked at his massive weight.

Margaret grabbed the serving girl by her wrist and pointed to the kitchen. "As much clean cloth as you can find back there. Now, or this man dies in your tavern."

"What in the Nine Hells?" Benefast asked, shocked out of his fatigued state. He ran over to the fallen barbarian. "What are you doing bringing him here?"

"You serve Sune?" Margaret asked. He nodded. "I am Mother Margaret, High Cleric of Chauntea. Get me Lura at once, or this man dies in your tavern."

The order was delivered with such authority that Benefast simply obeyed without question. He darted off for the second floor of the tavern as the serving girl returned with giant rolls of white cloth. "Where did you get that?" Margaret asked.

"It's the towels we use to clean," the girl said. "Just washed."

Margaret nodded. "What's your name, girl?"

"Marsys," she said quietly.

"Marsys, you've just become a nurse. Do exactly as I say, is that understood?" Margaret asked. Marsys nodded meekly. "Good, now go get a pitcher of water and a jar of salt. I have to disinfect the wound." Marsys nodded and darted off, her magical assets bouncing painfully in the process since she had neglected to wear any sort of support. She returned apace with the requested items just as Margaret pulled open the wrapping. Marsys felt lightheaded at the grievous wound and almost fainted. Margaret was at her side in a heartbeat, smacking her across the face. "Focus, girl," she shouted. "I need you, this man needs you. Now!"

Margaret grabbed the pitcher and jar and set it on a nearby table. She took a cloth and soaked it thoroughly, then sprinkled salt all over the cloth.

"Isn't that going to..." Marsys began, but trailed off when she realized she was being ignored.

Margaret pressed the cloth firmly on the open wound, salt and water grinding into the wound and purging it of any brooding infection. If only it had been that simple. The barbarian, hitherto semiconscious, opened his eyes wide and roared out loud. Marsys yelped and clapped her palms over her ears. Then he got control of himself and settled. Margaret eyed the barbarian, and he nodded. She tossed the bloodied cloth to the floor, wet another and poured much more salt onto the wet fabric. She saw the barbarian steel himself, then pressed the salty cloth into the wound. He made no more than a grunt and grit his teeth, accepting the pain. Marsys watched in amazement as an almost serene look fell over his face.

"Barbarians," Margaret said to Marsys. "They are unbelievably resilient. His wound has punctures his lung. He should be dead, and if he were any other man, he would be." Marsys simply looked on dumbfounded.

*****

"What in blazes," Mikhail said as he threw open Greta's door and stepped into the hall. He was still dressed in plain trousers and a loose tunic. Benefast was facing away from him but whirled on him.

"Where's Lura?" Benefast asked without answering.

"I don't know," Mikhail said. "What happened downstairs?"

"Better go see for yourself. I have to find Lura or someone's going to die," Benefast said.

Mikhail bolted down the stairs even as Greta began to ask what was happening. He was in the common room in an instant and saw Marsys and Margaret standing next to a giant of a man who was splayed out on a booth table. "By the gods," he said, and both women faced him.

"What is it?" Margaret asked.

"I know this man."

*****

"Did you hear that?" Ambrusia asked, sitting bolt upright in her bed. She was not at the Dreaming Dragon.

"Lay back down," Lura purred, her dexterous fingers gliding down Ambrusia's back. The dragonborn shivered but did not relent. "What's wrong?"

"A mighty roar," she replied. "From you tavern. It was a cry of pain; we must go quickly."

Lura sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Her Red Robe had changed into a see-through camisole as thin as a wisp of wind. But Ambrusia was up and already putting on thick leather clothing and seemed to be preparing for a battle. Taking that cue, Lura shifted her robe into its traditional long, flowing form that covered and protected her. They both left quickly, making all haste to the Dragon. Ambrusia was taller and faster thanks to her long legs, and opened the door first. She gasped and slowly walked in. Lura followed a moment later. Her eyes immediately fell on the barbarian and tears welled in her eyes. She knew him well, yes, and still cared much for him. Mikhail was there, as well as Benefast and Donnara, the latter of which in her night clothes.

"It's about time," Margaret said. "Wherever you've been, you were needed here. He is on his last breaths."

"No," Lura said, pushing everyone aside and kneeling on the bench next to the barbarian. Tears welled in her eyes as she examined the wound. Blood was everywhere, staining her robe, the wooden floor, Margaret's hands and clothing. She put her hands on the wound and closed her eyes, calling to Sune, but felt no response.

"Lura," the barbarian said. His voice was strained and choked with blood. "I wanted to help. To serve. I was led to you again by a vision. But I was attacked. My people did not look favorably on my decision." He laughed, holding up both hands. "Ten of them. Killed them all. But one got me, dishonorable dog." He coughed violently. Blood spurted onto his chest, and he looked down at it, at the people gathered around him. "This is it then? Am I coming to you, my love?" He was talking to nobody in the room. "Funny. I expected there would be more dead bodies around me when I..."

His last breath barely passed his lips. Then guilt fell on Lura and floored her. She sat in a pool of blood that wasn't her own. If she hadn't lost her temper, she would have been in the field instead of Margaret. She would have healed him on the spot. And why wouldn't Sune listen to her? A flood of emotion suffused her body. Then she heard the song of Sune in her mind. She stood up and put her hands on the barbarian, and radiant blue-white light erupted from her palms. There were gasps of shock. To everyone but Lura, the drow had taken on another image. Her eyes shone like twin beacons, swirling red and gold pools of magic. Her skin shone like polished obsidian and radiated such pure radiance that any malady those around her had was simply healed and gone as if it had never been there before.

Power pulsed from Lura in palpable waves. The tavern shook and pure divine power flowed from Sune, through Lura, and into the barbarian. Then it ended abruptly, and Lura fell, momentarily blacked out, onto the barbarian. They both lay very still for a moment. Then, as one, they both stirred with life. The barbarian inhaled deeply, his massive chest lifting Lura's body almost a foot before settling again. The drow's eyes fluttered and she began to lift herself from the prone barbarian. His crystal blue eyes flickered open and locked with Lura's eyes, now swirling pools of radiant red and gold. She had undergone a transformation as Sune poured more of her power into the drow to resurrect the barbarian.

"Lura," he whispered.

"Hammer," she responded, a smile as wide as any she had ever worn growing on her face. He sat up, flexed his shoulders and stretched his neck.

"I have returned to your side, Lady Lura. The Red Knight has sent me to you yet again. It seems that no wound my people could land would deter me," he said. "Thanks to Sune and her Chosen."

"I was worried you had returned only to depart," Lura said, wrapping her arms around him. She realized that they had never been truly close to each other, but he had always been a good and loyal friend, and she welcomed him to her side.

"He should rest," Margaret said timidly.

"I am fine, thank you Mother," Hammer said. "Your assistance made this all possible. Great deeds await us all. Mikhail," he said, standing fully and towering over the smaller man. "It is good to see you again, my friend. I see that Lura has put some muscle on you at last."

"In some areas more than others, I assure you," Mikhail said. He looked past the barbarian at Greta, who looked ashen and vanished to the second floor.

"I regret my informal and messy introduction," Hammer said to the halfling, somehow able to pick halfling as owner. "It was not what I intended."