The Drow Queen of Glaley [Very NSFW]

[Coquette Blacquin]

Now she loses her composure, fighting like a wildcat to get free, even disjointing her thumbs as she had learned to do -- but it's no use. She's trapped like a rat, waiting for the axe to fall. Is this it? Is this how I die? Killed by my own father for what, for nothing?

[Judge Harrod Blacquin]

Catching movement to her side, Coquette sees one of the silent, almost faceless judicial guards approaching. Without a word, he grabs at her head, her hair. She puts up a damn hard struggle, even catching a finger with her teeth well enough to draw blood, but he eventually manages to pull her head all the way back and lock an arm around her throat. 

"Your degenerate behavior has shamed the family's name and cannot be forgiven. However, a wise man learns to turn any blow into an opening. If this is what interests you, then so be it. I will use you as you wish to be used." The judge's words are spoken evenly, pace and volume lacking any dint of life or emotion. As they press down on her, she sees Dennis approaching with a vial of amber liquid, a curl of black and sour vapour rising from the opening.

[Coquette Blacquin]

Use. Something about that word almost triggers something, a flash of memory blanked out, a hint of a ritual, of Gold's face screwed up in disgust. She freezes in terror, long enough for Dennis to our the vial down her throat. She hacks, coughs, tries to spit it out, but enough goes into her that her blood turns to ice. Poison?

[Judge Harrod Blacquin]

"Gently now," Harrod murmurs, though to her or the guard or Dennis is hard to tell. "Gently."

The guard snaps a hand up over her mouth, trapping the bulk of the potion in. After a moment, Dennis sighs softly and gently pinches her nose shut. Despite the terror this should invoke, Coquette finds herself... not really caring. Not nearly as much as she should. Or, actually, should she? Why? What does any of it matter? The ice in her blood melts as a gentle warmth spreads through her, causing the aches and pains to fade away and her thoughts to soothe.

[Coquette Blacquin]

She finds herself melting away, something small and tight locking in her chest, locking away her other selves. She finds her head bowing at last, meek and submissive, waiting patiently for whatever is next to befall her. Do as he says and I won't be hurt. There's a good pet.

[Judge Harrod Blacquin]

The rough hands pull away, leaving her alone for a good minute or two. She blinks slowly, her eyes opening to see her father standing just in front of her. Did she doze off? Is that okay? Did she--

"That's better," he murmurs, gently stroking her hair. The touch is one long unfamiliar, but there are vague memories stirring on the edges of her uncurious mind. Stern smiles with guarded but caring eyes. Stiff words of praise with gentle pats and supportive touches. A... A hug? She hadn't thought she'd had any memories of honest kindness from her father but... "I do wish this had gone another way but..." He inhales sharply and the hand pulls away.

"Wishes are for wizards. I am a man of law and principle. I will make what use of you I can, given circumstances. This plan... Well. If you had not forced my hand in this manner, I would have set it aside for lack of the proper materials. But, ruined as you are for any noblier purpose, this must be enough. And perhaps you will find it suits you." He moves away, returning to his desk to puck up the still unfinished drink. "I would suggest you try, certainly, as you have no other choice really." He looks over her shoulder and nods, the gesture an order rather than affirmation.

"I'll be sure to take good care of her, my liege," a silky voice whispers into Coquette's ear. "Personally."

[GamesMaster]

{Prologue | Part 1 | Interludes [1 2 3]| Part 2}

Act 1: 1215TL

I am no-one. I obey. I am hollow.

He had been so sure this would work. The plan was perfect. It didn't even depend on anyone else who could betray him. Only himself, and his skills, both the bedroom skills and the darker ones. One more murder, and he would have been free forever. When he'd been caught anyway, it hadn't even taken a beating to break his spirit. The last shreds of Zevran had shattered, leaving him empty, hollow, useless.

I am tainted.I will not speak until commanded. I am nothing.

The next person he was sent to kill, he simply sat on his hands and waited. Before long, another slave was sent to extract him, dragging him bodily before the master. He was beaten again, but he didn't care. What did pain matter? He was done. He would not kill again. He prayed death would be soon, to release him from his torment.

He was left alone without food or water, but he became no more compliant. Beatings, watching other slaves be beaten, nothing worked. He refused to kill. And so, finally, he was being sent out to pasture, sold off as a bedwarmer to some Alyssan noblewoman, his fertility restored so he could be bred. Not that he intended on doing his duty here, either, not if he could help it. Death was what he sought now.

I am merely flesh. I am a traitor.

He was shown to his quarters, where he was left alone, locked in his room with his most recent injuries (he had resisted getting on the boat to cross the bay, and he hadn't received medical care on the trip over either) and his dark thoughts. A search of the room provided no easy means to die, and he wasn't desperate enough to try beating himself to death with a chair leg yet. An opportunity would come. They'd let slip a knife or a bit of rope, something he could use more easily. Time now to rest, to recover, to wait and plan.

I will devote myself to my training. I am just a cock and tongue.

The lock turns. The door opens. A figure in a brilliant silver-and-black cloak steps inside, the hood shading their face, the formless cloak hiding their body.

[Zevran]

Zevran turns his head, just enough to see the figure straight on, then turns back to stare at the ceiling. No other reaction. No interest, no fear, no anything. 

[Coquette Blacquin]

The figure stares at him a long moment, then backs out of the room. The lock turns once more. 

A few minutes later, the lock turns again, and the same figure returns. This time, they enter the room fully, shutting it behind them and moving to kneel beside the bed. They place a basket down beside them, and from it, remove a small jug of water and a rag. Without speaking, they move to clean his wounds, their hands gloved in fine kidskin gloves. 

[Zevran]

No orders given, Zevran just lays there passively, allowing the person to treat his wounds. Despite his apathy, the subtle tension in his body speaks volumes about how wary he is, and about how he expects this encounter to end up.

[Coquette Blacquin]

The figure doesn't even hesitate when she gets to his crotch; she wipes away the sweat and dirt and blood there, and on his inner thighs, as though it were any other piece of flesh. When she has finished, the water in the jug is clouded and bloody, but his body is cleaner than it's been in some time. She then moves to apply ointments, bandages, with the same unhurried care. 

Then she speaks to him in Undercommon. Their voice is soft, almost melodious despite the harshness of the language. He has no idea what she's said, but it didn't sound like orders, exactly. Perhaps a question?

[Zevran]

"This lowly one serves Mistress."

The Undercommon is pronounced perfectly but woodenly, the tone that of someone perfectly reciting a sound instead of speaking words. But at least it's a response; other than a muted gasp when she had cleaned the welts on his legs, he'd not reacted to her actions. Even when she'd cleaned his crotch, his dragon remained slumbering. 

"What craving am I to sate?"

[Coquette Blacquin]

She touches his ears gently, thinking, and says something else in Undercommon, though he picks out the word "imisy" in there. After a moment, she speaks again, this time in Common: "I asked your name. Do you recall it?"

Her accent is strange, not the Alessian he expected. It's almost Glalian, but with Alessan mixed in. There's no hint of an underdark accent, but her undercommon was flawless, accented just right as well. Strange.

[Zevran]

He blinks slowly, a faint look of puzzlement touching his eyes briefly. After a long moment, his head moves just a fraction as he nods.

[Coquette Blacquin]

Slightly impatiently, she asks, "What is it, then? Or something to call you, I don't care if it's what your mother named you."