Sune's Chosen Ch. 01

Setting takes place in Forgotten Realms, copyright Wizards of the Coast.

Silverymoon was a city that opened its gates too all. For Lura, who was a black-skinned white-haired drow, that was a good thing. On the surface, her kind was not always readily accepted. Thanks to the works of the goddess Eilistraee and a certain well known drow ranger, though, she had made her way relatively easily through the Silver Marches. The dwarves of Mithral Hall had questioned her when she approached their realm, but had let her pass, thanks much to her seductive presence.

She was a bard, but only passively. Her interests lay solely in her chosen goddess, Sune, the Lady Firehair. Her hips swayed as she sauntered past the steel-clad guards of Silverymoon's gates, her gauzy midthigh skirt fluttering frivolously in the light breeze and barely concealed her long, sensual black thighs. Her black belt was thick, holding her light rapier, and contrasted against the silvery skirt she wore. Her hips were only barely hidden as the skirt's light material was more dense, giving a façade of decency to the drow.

Her shirt was made of a similar material as the shirt, and the material was dense around her chest, emphasizing her attempt at modesty. Her black boots were high, almost reaching her knee, with a thick heel several inches long, emphasizing her finely toned legs and voluptuous (for an elf) hips. What many realized too late were her potent abilities. Her ultra-light garments were heavily enchanted and laced with mithril, protecting her from blade and arrow alike. Her boots would give her supernatural speed when necessary, and silence when sneaking. Her rapier was as lethal as any drow weapon, though not native to the Underdark.

But Lura was a lover, not a fighter, and though she performed the latter admirably, the former was her forte, and her most lethal weapon, for the drow was not afraid to mix business with pleasure. She did, after all, have to make a living, and she was far too prideful to lower herself to prostitution.

Thus her quick pace, which did little to easy the sway of her hips, flaring out beneath a deliciously narrowed waist, or the bounce and sway of her breasts, which were larger than any surface elf's. Her top did help with keeping them from flying about wildly as her thick-heeled boots clicked loudly on the stone road. She had seem many women with generous attributes attempt to keep their prize snugly pressed to their chests, but Lura was fond of her ample treasures, and thanked Lolth wryly for granting her race with more generous endowments than their weaker, smaller surface cousins.

Lura put her black hand, clad in an equally black velvet glove, to the holy symbol around her neck. A woman's face with full, pouty lips and closed eyes was cast in silver, with long flowing hair, painted with red pigment, hung on a strong but thin silver chain just above the cleavage her thin top presented. She was on her way back to the festhall her fellow Sunites owned with an item she had been hired to retrieve from a very greedy, and very xenophobic elven wizard. Lura grinned as she recalled the juiciest bits of her mission.

With the Hunter's Gate and the Moonwood behind her, she went south into the Market, where the festhall awaited.

"Lady Lura!" she heard, and her violet painted lips turned down into a scowl. Her forehead crinkled as her thin, elegant white eyebrows arched down. The call repeated itself and the bard had to take a deep, calming breath before she stopped.

"Yes, Mikhail?" she said, turning on her heal. Her white hair, highlighted crimson in honor of Sune, whipped around her head as her matching crimson eyes stared down the young man.

"Lady Lura, your presence is that of Sune herself," he said, very nearly falling down to his knees and grovelling before her. Something in her drow mind realized she would have enjoyed the almost handsome young man naked and licking the soles of her feet in worship as her many-tongued whip teased his welted back...

She shook the image from her mind and focused on the boyish eyes looking at her. "Will you ever think of anything more clever to say?" she asked, her voice a little more harsh than she'd intended. He looked crestfallen, and a very un-drow-like feeling of sympathy pervaded her thoughts. "I apologize," she said grudgingly. "I am in a rush."

"I will not keep you long," he said, excited again. "I would just like to know if, maybe, perchance, you'd like to, mayhap--"

"Out with it! A woman does not like to be kept waiting," she said.

"A dancing festival!" he blurted, then bit his tongue. "There is a festival in honor of Sharess tonight just outside the city. I thought that since you were a Sunite, and Sharess serves your goddess, you might like it."

Her immediate reaction was to turn him down, to provide a perfectly reasonable (albeit, perfectly false) excuse, and going on her way. But something about this offer was different than the many, many solicitations her youthful human admirer had offered. Smiling enough to reveal her opalesque teeth, she offered her hand. "Bring me a white rose, with a black stem, and red around the edges of the petals, and I will accompany you," she said.

"Just like you," he said. She blinked dumbfounded, not expecting him to discern the metaphor between the rose and herself. Unexpectedly, her mouth dried and her heart fluttered with an urge to kiss the boy, but quashed the urge viciously with typical drow ferocity. She simply nodded.

"I will be in my festhall quarters," she said, pointing to the tall, long building at the apex of the Market's circle.

"I will arrive before sunset," he said, hurrying off.

Sighing with frustration, she turned again toward her festhall. Her footfall's were loud on the hard stone as she began negotiating her path through the throng of people gathering around the different stores and temporary shops set up in the Market circle. Lura recognized several of the citizens as she passed them, and they likewise recognized her, greeting her warmly. She was smug as she smiled and winked at them, having served them, men and women alike, from within the Sunite festhall.

Lura was no prostitute or common street whore. The drow bard was very selective with her mats, and only those she felt had the fortitude to mate with a drow ever shared her bed, or one of the basement rooms with her. She was getting close to the rose-emblazoned double doors of the Dancing Rose, and the doormen, dressed in thin loincloths that did little to hide their longswords and with their torsos painted in imagery of the Lady Firehair, pulled open the doors for her. She ran her fingers over their rippling muscles in appreciation, letting her long nails drag across the skin, and entered.

Soft music and heavy incense assaulted her senses, and she immediately felt a pleasant lightheadedness sooth her. As a drow, she was resistant to such chemical effects, but she allowed a slight indulgence in the name of Sune, though she never truly let her guard down. A willowy woman approached her, sliding her hands over Lura's shoulders and down her arms, to clasp her hips and pull her tight, then pressing pink-painted lips against Lura's violet lips. The drow pulled the woman tight, cupping her bottom and grinning behind the kiss.

"It is good you have returned, sister," Shanara said in her low, sultry voice. Only the faint scent of wine came from her lips.

"A pleasure, as always, to be greeted by such a skilled woman," Lura said, lightly patting Shanara's bottom. The woman was taller than she was by a full head, for Lura, being drow, was barely more than five feet tall, and the woman was closer to six feet. Shanara's long legs were complimented by long arms, and her breasts were not large, but sat high on her chest, and fit into Lura's small hand perfectly. Shanara let her brown hair fall over her lightly tanned shoulders, which were bare save for the thin band of cloth that held her nearly see-through dress up. Lura appreciated the sight of her dark brown aereolas and semi-firm nipples through the red-orange dress.

"Miria awaits you," Shanara said, leaning in to nip at the soft flesh of Lura's neck, just below the jaw. "As do I," she whispered huskily, her fingers gliding the lower edge of her belt, short nails scraping through the sheer cloth. Lura felt a lascivious shiver course from her sex to her spine as the human nipped at the point of her sensitive ear.

"In due time," Lura replied in a similar fashion, squeezing Shanara's bottom, something she knew made the human woman squirm with delight.

Extricating herself from the sensual woman, Lura passed between tables stocked with patrons, even early in the afternoon. A trio of dwarves downed mugs of ale with one of her dwarven sisters, with bountiful bosoms that were fitting for the stocky race and long, thickly braided hair. Lura grinned at the rough giggle she made when one of the stocky fellows pinched her round butt. His comrades laughed heartily when she slugged him hard on the jaw. Dwarves, she thought, interesting mating rituals. I'll have to try that sometime.

Ahead of her she watched in awe (and arousal) as one of her more exotic sisters placed her foot on a chair, right atop her chosen patron's crotch. The tiefling, a product of the union between a mortal and a creature of the lower planes, had very long and very sharp stiletto heels on, and the hard sole of her black-and-red shoe pressed against the swell in the man's trousers. Her black thong underwear had slipped deep into her bottom, something made evident by the long skirt she wore which was nearly transparent. Lura appreciated the swell of the tie fling's breasts, barely contained by a black bra that contrasted to her ruddy skin. Petite, dark brown horns came from her cranium, parting the pale blonde hair that was tied tight behind her head. Her short fangs grazed her victim's cheek as she licked with a long red tongue against his jaw line.

Lura bit her lip and patted the girl on the bottom as she walked past. With lightning reflexes, the tiefling reached out and siezed her gloved hand, pulling her roughly over the chair as Lura passed, planting a searing kiss against Lura's mouth. "Welcome back, sister," she said, her voice an exotic double tone. Lura grinned lasciviously at her and turned to walk away.

"Look at me, worm!" she heard the tiefling, Cyra, shout. Lura grinned at the sound of skin smacking skin, and the man pleading for mercy. She would have made an excellent drow, she thought to herself, remembering the times she had treated a would-be lover in such a manner back in the Underdark.

Finally, she reached the bar, and leaned on the wooden construct. She admired the polished surface with engravings of roses, atop which danced several maidens, all naked or wearing a thin chain around their waists. She named them as Lliira the Joybringer, Hanali Cilanil, also known as Lady Goldheart, and Sharess the Dancing Lady. All were goddesses allied with Sune. Above them all on the bar-scape was the moon, Selûne, who Lura fancied as a former lover of her goddess.

"What's your fancy?" asked Gundor. Lura fancied the robust man with a smile.

"Feywine," she said. She watched as the man, shirtless and wearing tan pants that were tight around his muscular thighs, turned and reached for a bottle on a high shelf. A tattoo of a hammer was on his back with lightning bolts coming from it. Lura admired the rippling muscles of the former barbarian, and almost reached out to touch his bicep when he curled a glass up to meet the bottle. He poured her a generous amount, per her previous demands. When he extended the glass to her, she giggled when his pectoral bounced involuntarily.

"Laughing at me again," he said, curling a crooked smile on his stubbly face.

"Relax, Hammer," she said, using her nickname for him. "I am only appreciating the show."

"Of course," he said. Gundor was well over six feet tall, with shoulders that could contain her width twofold. His chest was broad and lightly haired, and his stomach rippled with muscle when he turned this way and that. She knew his hands were large exploring her body, but, though he had spent decades wielding weapons for violence, they were soft, tender when needed and firm when desired.

"Some day soon I need to climb your mountain again," she said, winking at him. Lura's memory of sharing his bed was much akin to climbing a mountain, in that her small, five-foot frame was so tiny when mingled with his massive form. And, she thought with a grin, his muscles aren't the only thing so huge.

Lura took her leave from the common room, exiting a side door that only servants of Sune could pass through. She passed another sister, a brown haired woman with close-cropped hair, athletic build, and small, perky breasts. They shared a quick cheek-kiss and a smile as business overtook Lura's self-serving thoughts. Climbing the stairs to the second floor, she walked down the hall that was lined with rooms that could be readily made sound-proof, the Sunites' living rooms, then passed the Sunites' kitchen, and came to the door at the end of the hall.

Miria's two-room apartment in the Dancing Rose was the envy of all her sisters. In one room, the first room, was Miria's desk, where the Sunite Matron attended her official business. Also in the room was a rare collection of fine wines, a comfortable seating area, and burning incense, sans the intoxicating effects of the common room.

Lura heard the magical shower running in Miria's bedroom, a place she had visited only on rare occasions. For a paladin serving the goddess of love and passion, she had not known the firm woman to take many lovers. The drow walked to the slightly ajar door that led to the elegant bedroom, she announced her presence.

"Matron Miria, I have returned," she said.

"I will be with you shortly," the paladin responded. "Please, pour a glass of wine and have a seat."

Lura did just that, and heard the shower cut off just as she sat with a fresh glass of feywine, delighting in the very subtle warmth in her stomach. The door creaked open and the drow stood quickly. Immediately her knees went weak, for Miria's presence had assaulted her sexuality.

Her skin was pale, almost grey, and her black hair was wet and clung to her skin. Droplets of water ran down her back, to the towel that covered her waist. Her breasts were small, pert, and with long, hard nipples from the cool air against her wet skin. She watched a droplet of water trail down her chest, down the middle of her right breast, to rest on her rigid nipple. It formed a droplet that dangled from the extended flesh, then fell, and she realized she had been holding her breath, watching it. Lura's gaze snapped back to the paladin's face, then, reflexively, to the pointed ear sticking out of her hair.

"You took your time returning," Miria said, her voice sharp.

"The common room causes many distractions," Lura said defensively.

"As did, I'm sure, the bedchamber of Mevin the wizard," Miria snapped back. Lura blushed imperceptibly against her obsidian skin. She had spent more time that was necessary seducing the elven wizard. And even more sharing his bed.

"My apologies," Lura said, bowing her head. Wizards have unique skills in bed, she silently added.

"When I sent you after him for the symbol, that was all you were to do. I did not order you to mate with my brother," Miria said, sitting on her desk. Lura's breath caught. She hadn't known that the wizard was her matron's brother, though now that she looked at the paladin, she certainly saw the resemblance.

"I did not know," Lura said, lowering her wine glass.

"Of course you did not, but his bloodline is not the issue," Miria said. "You must learn to control your carnal urges, Lura."

"The edicts of Sune--"

"The edicts of Sune apply to revelry and leisure!" Miria snapped. "Business is business, and though your greatest weapon is your femininity, I cannot have my Heartwarders running off and copulating with whomever they see fit. You had a mission, you were to complete it, then return. Had you simply come back promptly with your objective complete, I wouldn't have given a damn whether you went back to his phallic tower and mated with him for a tenday without rest."

"A tenday?" she asked, her voice taking an air of wonder and curiosity.

"Focus!" Miria shouted. "Remember this next time I send you out of the city."

"Of course, Matron," she said, bowing. When she looked up again, Miria had a long leather cane in her hand. The handle was wrapped thick, and the length was made of flexible leather. It ended in long tassels that were painted red. Lura bit her lip in anticipation and Miria grinned.

"I will be certain to burn it into your memory," the elf said. "On the desk!"

Lura obeyed immediately, removing her belt and dropping it to the floor. She leaned against he heavy wooden desk, her hands gripping the edge as she felt her breasts hang down, restrained from freedom only by her top.

Miria admired the figure of the drow. "You dark ones are so much more voluptuous than my kind," she said, her voice a bit huskier than before. She ran the tassels of the flexible rod over her back. Lura shivered at the sensation she felt through her enchanted shirt. Miria circled around behind her, the three foot rod in one hand, the drow's hip in the other hand. She pulled the dark-skinned hips against hers and thrust, causing Lura's breasts to sway a bit from the force. Lura mewled and bit her lip harder.

Miria backed away, running the long tassels over Lura's back, across her voluptuous hips, then down the backs of her thighs. The rod ascended the inside of her leg, stopping just short of the dark elf's nexus. "Stand and remove your top," Miria commanded. Lura did so, standing and arching her back, jutting her hips and breasts out as she grasped the hem of her shirt. Miria stood to the side and watched as more and more of the drow's taut abdomen was revealed, holding her breath as she watched the shirt pull her breasts up. She remembered to breath, and in doing so muttered an oath to Sune, when Lura's shirt released the generous orbs of her breasts, capped with areola and nipples that were a darker shade of violet than the drow's lips. They bounced merrily for only a moment before their weight settled them on Lura's torso. Miria had to fight back a groan of lust.

"Your skirt."

Lura bent forward, and Miria watched as the bountiful breasts hung from her chest. They were perky and taut, still firm with youth, and hung deliciously like pendulums of depraved desire. Lura's fingers hooked over the top of her skirt and pushed as she bent down and forward. The swell of the drow bottom made Miria's nexus curl and quiver, and the slow descent down the long, for such a short being, legs was seductive. "Hold!" Miria shouted.

Lura stayed as she was, her skirt at her ankles and bent over with her bottom and sex displayed lewdly for examination. She watched between her legs as Miria circled around behind her again and knelt. Lura admired the depths hidden under Miria's towel, her drow eyesight piercing the darkness to see the small tuft of black hair just above her slit and the pearlescent liquid that was starting to coat it. Her gasp was audible when she felt Miria's long nails gliding up and down her inner thighs and the backs of her thighs.

Miria burned the image of what was before her in her mind. As she ran her nails up and down the drow's thighs, she watched in amazement and lust as the drow's deep violet flower blossomed, coated with a thin sheen of arousal. Like herself, Lura had a V-shaped tuft of silvery hair just above her slit, as if pointing the way to hidden treasure. Above the blooming sex, she watched as the black rosebud relaxed, creating a tiny gap. She stood quickly, mindless of the towel that fell to her feet.