The Drow Queen of Glaley [Very NSFW]

[Shisou]

"I haven't touched me, though. I mean. Uh. Well, I mean that either, but... all of this is new."

[Zevran]

"You should," Zevran says softly, shifting a little so she could lay in the curve of his arm instead of facing him as they are now. "Not to arouse, but to explore and learn."

[Shisou]

"I will. Not, uh, right now, but I will. I'm going to have a long life in this body, I need to get to know it."

[Zevran]

Zevran makes a disappointed whine, but the curve of his lips makes it clear he's just teasing her. "I think..." He hums softly, giving her a suddenly thoughtful look. Reaching out, he takes her hand in his, then meets her eyes with a steady gaze. "Shiori, may I have the honor and pleasure of taking my lovely new wife out on her first date?"

[Shisou]

She flushes prettily then, the pink of her cheeks contrasting with the green locks that dangle beside them. "I-- I-- yes, of course."

[Zevran]

Unable to stop himself-- mostly as he doesn't want to-- Zevran kisses her tenderly. I am so glad she is happy. We all deserve  to have some happiness. 

[GamesMaster]

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

Interlude 3: Enslaved

Being a slave isn't so bad. At least that's what Bull keeps telling himself. There's a world of difference between being a devoted servant and being the newest slave in a huge compound, but each small indignity is something he can handle, for Coquette. All this is for her; to ensure her escape, the price he's willingly paid for her safety, for her survival. So he can handle it. The beatings are no worse than he'd taken in the fighting pits. The work is no harder than he's done before. The meager rations are survivable. The damp, the dark, the cold, are all inconvenient but manageable. For Coquette, he can handle it.

Then they put him in a room and instruct him to rape a young girl. Her eyes are huge, dark and full of fear; she's chained to a rickety cot, naked, her legs shackled apart to give him easy access. She looks too young for this, too young to be a mother by far; she looks younger than Cedric, barely pubescent, only a small smattering of hair across her pubic mound to prove she's 'mature'. She screams and struggles as he enters, and he only takes one look at her before turning and laying the guard out with a stern punch.

There are more guards, of course. There are always more guards. Not to mention the collar around his neck that makes him vomit violently on command. He's easy enough to subdue. But they can't force him to become erect, can't force him into this without using some kind of drug or mind control. They'll have to break him first.

The whipping is worse than he's taken in the fighting pits. He throws up from the pain, dry-heaving as there's nothing left in his stomach, and still the whip doesn't stop, cuts deep into his flesh. It will leave marks that may never heal.

The dark, cold cell they keep him in after is worse. There's no healing salve, not even water to wash his cuts. They don't feed him, despite his caloric requirements and all the vomiting. They leave him alone in the dark for... how long? Impossible to tell, with nothing to tell time by. Days, certainly. He sleeps, he wakes, he sleeps again. He grows fainter, dizzier. His head is burning up and the rest of him is freezing cold. He can barely tell up from down anymore; there's nothing but the darkness, the cold, the emptiness in his gut.

He becomes certain he will die.

He wakes. That was unexpected. As unexpected is the light, blinding him as he opens his eyes a crack. The next unexpected thing is the sound of humming: a gentle, catchy tune. There's a feel of soft, damp cloth on his forehead, resting there. There's the feel of another damp, soft rag gently cleaning his back. Someone is.... caring for him? Trying to revive him? Trying to treat his injuries?

[The Iron Bull]

A low, rumbling rasp particularly limps out of his mouth, a wet hitch punctuating it. It's not the pithy threat he'd meant to make to whoever this is, but he hopes the meaning gets across.

Kill me or I will bring death to you and yours.

[GamesMaster]

"There, there," says a voice: high and sweet and a little raspy with age. "It's alright, luv. I know. Here, you needa chew, now. Can't say I like as your chances without it." 

A wad of leaves are pressed firmly against his lips, insistently. 

[The Iron Bull]

There's not really any consideration or planning involved in his response; he simply snaps at the fingers holding the leaves. He's quick and strong, but he's also starved, his body near broken. He catches the tip of a thumb, but not fast enough or hard enough to do more than redden skin before the hand is withdrawn, sans a good portion of the leaves they'd been holding.

[GamesMaster]

"Good boy," is all she says, going back to cleaning his back. Bull comes to realize he's laying on his stomach, head turned to the side. A moment later, he realizes he can smell porridge or oats of some kind simmering not too far away. 

[The Iron Bull]

Wait, that didn't work out right. Bull's lips twist a little as he tries to force his brain to work out what just happened and why it was wrong, which is was but why is he sure it was wrong and what was he doing boy that smells good is that food yeah it totally is that would be nice to have. "Uhgg?"

[GamesMaster]

There doesn't seem to be a response, not until his stomach growls, the filthy traitor. "I 'pose that's browed right darn near long enough," she says, and a moment later, a wooden bowl of the most delicious smelling, steaming hot porridge is placed beside his head, a wooden spoon sticking out at an angle. 

[The Iron Bull]

If I had hands, I'd probably love to eat some of that. Am I supposed to have hands? Seems right. Then again, fair certain I... The fuck was I thinking again? Oooh, wha's that smell? His stomach gurgles again and he tries to tense at the strange sound, a spike of wariness prompting him to ready himself for... Hey, is that breakfast?

[GamesMaster]

The woman goes back to cleaning his wounds, leaving him to smell the delicious hot-grain scent, tortured by its nearness and yet the distance. He becomes quickly very familiar with the smell: hot grains in water, no sign of milk or sweeteners, not a hint of fruit, but just good, thorough food. 

Eventually, she finishes what she's doing, moving to haul him upright and lean him against a wall. That's when he gets a sight of her for the first time: heavily pregnant, the human woman looks to be in her late forties, though she could be a little younger and her skin be prematurely aged by hard labor. Her hair is deep chestnut, bound up in a tight bun, and the dress she wears is little more than rags, part of them still bearing the stamp of a grain mill to prove it was stitched originally from flour sacks. She is barefoot, her arms bare, and she wears no jewelry or other adornment, but she carries herself with a grace and bearing that suggests this is someone important, maybe even powerful. 

She squats beside him, humming, as she picks up the bowl and begins to spoon-feed him.