Jez wasn’t as good of a girl as she made people believe she was. Sure, she wasn’t terrible, and certainly didn’t have any evil intents… quite the opposite… but she loved one thing that would classify her as bad. Jez loved sex, and not always the monogamous kind. In fact, for her birthday for the past couple of years, she served as a present for several well-to-do, well-kept trolls, chosen specifically by Zij for her.
Tag Archive for Character: Jumwa
Decades prior, Jumwa would have sat atop a throne of skulls at the centre of his secluded forest village. Nestled in the woods of Lordaeron, Jumwa’s enclave did not command great armies or respect from the other Trolls. In fact, its existence hinged much upon remaining hidden.
The vile witch doctors reign was cruel and often irrational. His quest for eternal life spared none. Children of the village disappeared in the dungeons below his manor-fortress and all were too afraid to confront or question him on it.
The cries of battle resounded through the valley, the mountains on either side locking in the war cries and the screams of pain. Jumwa stood guard at the window of the bunker he and Renkka had taken, on the lookout for alliance, his power noticeable to any. He scowled as another human spotted him and turned tail, heading away from the powerful duo.
Renkka bounced up beside him, wrapping her arms around his muscular body, kissing his arm softly and smiling up at him. “It’s okay, Master Jumwa. They’ll come, eventually, and we’ll slaughter them.” She squeezed him as he looked down at her, smiling back at the vibrant orc. Leaning down, he kissed her head, his eyes still scanning the ground below for movement.
Her feet pounded into the ground as she sprinted around her small, claimed land. For the past weeks she had been training full time, barely breaking to eat. Her atrophied muscles had regained their fervor and her body was lean and tone. Her arms had begun to bulge slightly, once more, and her legs were carved into beautiful works of art.
She was able to easily slide back into her armour and practiced swinging at imaginary targets, then wooden ones, improving her accuracy and speed. Draeka was back where she was before Zij’s illness, and yet every time she tried to will her body to more towards her wandering Netherdrake, she paused and turned back around.
Dear Lady Idryl Bitterose,
I hope you will forgive the random nature of such a letter and grant me your patience in reading it fully. I am somewhat of an academic, a scholar of the magical arts; all the magical arts to some degree, I try. In particular, the arts of sorcery that I have on good word that you practice are of immense interest to me.
Through words with some Tribe members I have heard that you are a knowledgeable and eager practitioner who might assist me with some of the questions on implementation and theory. If the rumours are true, please, I would beg of your assistance in my own research and experimentation. If not, please kindly disregard and accept all due apologies for the consumption of your valuable time.
Jumwa’s heavy arm swung backwards, his eyes narrowed furiously as the back of his hand connected with Anjasa’s jaw, sending her flying back, a loud thud resonating through the bedroom as she struck the floor. She blinked a few tears away, scrambling backwards on her hands and feet as he stalked over to her, glaring down.
“We’re not in public any more, little girl. Have ju forgotten?”
Anjasa shook her head, fear lining her usually youthful and smug face, her hair clinging to her jaw and forehead. She whimpers as though in apology, knowing better than to form words. It only makes things worse.
Rain fell heavily on the plains of Nagrand–the heady scent of earth filling the air. The drops glistened as they fell, lightened by the high moon. Birds chirped to one another from the safety of their natural canopies as the worms rose to the surface, bathing in the moist earth.
A sole orc sat, her bare legs coated with mud. A loose, brown robe covered her, though it clung to her, the material thick with water. Still, she never stirred, her eyes closed, her mind shut out from the external elements. As though in a trance, her breathing was shallow and calm, setting a rhythmic pace. The land hummed to her, so faintly, murmuring its silent appreciation for the rain.
Draeka stood before the large, wooden door, hesitating. She had opted for something a little less menacing than her battle armour, instead visiting the familiar bank in Orgrimmar, taking out a simple robe, modest in cut, a rich brown. The trim around the edges, and in the full of the skirt was a forest green, accented in gold thread. Simple black shoes on her feet, she began her trek towards Jumwa’s home, hoping he had moved back in after the siege on the Keep.
She flexed her long, brown-green fingers before curving them into a fist, knocking loudly on the door and listening for any sounds of life. The plant life had grown up around the home in a not-unattractive manner, and in the heat of the summer they were blooming, if you could call it such. In the darkened Ghostlands, the flowers didn’t bloom so much as they opened, exposing their fragile innards, trembling at the slightest breeze.
Idryl sat in the small study, flicking through a heavy tome quickly, her careful green eyes scanning the messy notes and doodles, transferring some of the information to a lighter book. The room was lit by the high noon sun, the glare getting in her eyes slightly. She scowled at the slight inconvenience, summoning her voidwalker from her sitting position and letting him puff out of view the moment the two, heavy curtains were pulled shut, surrounding her in a thick darkness. She lit a small gas lamp at her side before she went back to her frantic scribbles.
I agreed to move in with J.J. today. Things are complicated, of course. He’s married to Anjasa, whom is of course living with him as well. They’ll be sharing a bed, and I’ll have my own separate bedroom. Just as well for that. I prefer my privacy, after all.
There once was a queen named Anjasa who lived in a beautiful castle with servants and maids and people to cook her meals. Her land was vast and she and her husband ruled over it with a strong hand. However, once in a while, the queen and her king wanted escape. So they would go to a little tiny cottage in the middle of the forest, surrounded by a beautiful moat.
In the moat was lots of fish for the queen to feed her hungry king, and she would get up early each morning, putting on a simple frock and going out with her heavy fishing pole, constantly bringing up fish after fish for his feast.
The queen herself didn’t eat much, but the king ate enough for a dozen strong men, his muscles required so much maintenance.
She would sit in the cool morning air, her bottom perched on a sofa pillow, her bare feet digging into the rough white sand, her manicured toes getting filthy. She had a large tub next to here where she places the fish, ready to be gutted and filleted. There’s a tiny breeze off the water, causing the plants to rustle and sway, whistling softly.
The King wakes not long after she, though his sleep is more rested and peaceful than usual. His body is large enough to fill the tiny doorways and he needs to turn to the side to get through them. His feet are heavy and sturdy on the floor as he walks out to meet his wife, crouching down behind her and nuzzling her neck with his tusks.
They don’t need to speak, and instead sit in serene silence, for serenity is so lost on them in their day to day operations. The leading of the kingdom leaves both of their voices hoarse and raw. The cottage is their chance to rejuvenate.
King Jumwa wears a simple kilt, the rest of his body bare and exposed to the early morning air, his dark skin seeming darker in the dawn light. He rubs her neck softly.
Inside the cottage there’s a yelp, then silence. The King and the Queen both let out a tiny sigh, though they’re both smiling.
The Queen says ‘I guess it’s time to feed him.”
The King nods against her shoulder, looking over at the tub full of fish, “Jes. Seems ju have enough to feed a kingdom.”
The Queen laughed softly and nodded, “or just two very hungry trolls.”
His tanned wrists were bound, expertly, the flesh of the delicate skin pressed tightly together as his hands were drawn over his head, elbows flexed only slightly. His legs were splayed, leather cuffs fastened tightly around his ankles.
His body was lean and toned, lithe, the muscles compacted against him, defined but non-obtrusive under his even, tawny skin that projected the elven man’s health, youth and vitality. His honeyed hair remained in a pony tail, the long tuffs of hair haloed around his head atop the rich, crimson bed pillow. The bed itself was plush and expensive, large enough for a large and sprawling couple, the room containing it lavishly furnished as though gold were of no consequence.
And, of course, it wasn’t. Anjasa lay beside Maglin, her head rest on his shoulder and her hair tussled with busy activities and restless sleeps, her toned body pressed against his, smooth leg drawn over his. The blankets were long cast aside and she breathed with the regular breath of deep sleep, though the green eyes of her companion remained open and alert, staring at the bright aureate and intricately engraved ceiling in thought.
After all, he had just been informed that his sister was marrying a troll.
There was a large, cherry table across the large dining room, set for twelve. All of the family was invited to the dinner, though Idryl and Maglin would, of course, be sat at the child’s table in the kitchen – out of sight and away from the nasty topics of an adult dinner. The room was hot with steam, though it was a relief from the cold fall breeze that lapped at the tinted windows.
The scent of baking was thick in the air; fresh rolls that would be served with churned butter, the delicate yellow liquid melting into the soft, doughy crevices. Lightly puffed pastries with jam filling that leaked out, just slightly, at the tips. But, of course, the piece that dominated all was the turkey that their mother and father had worked together to cook, side by side, though bickering all the way. The bird shined slightly with a light glaze, the skin crisp and protecting the tender meat from the heat of the spit.
The droplets of juice dripped into the fire and sizzled, sparking slightly. Idryl sat behind Maglin as they both watched it slowly turn as their parents ran off to bicker in another room about the colour of the table cloth or who was better at… anything. The twins had, for the most part, learned to tune them out. However, they were at an impasse. The two children were, in their minds, no longer children and were quite mature enough to handle these ‘adult’ conversations.
And so, the two little Quel’dorei with their glowing blue eyes and deviously chubby cheeks concocted a plan. They would move their delectable dinner about on their place and take turns, listening to the adults. Then the spy would run back and, with face flushed full of excitement and mind tempted with terribly adult things, blurt everything to the twin.
Idryl was the more serious of the two, with short brown hair kept in careful ringlets and large, pronounced dimples on either of her cheeks. Her carefully made dresses fit her snugly as her mother’s denial at the continued presence of her baby fat was, over all, impressive. Always dolled in frills and lace, Idryl learned from a young age to take care of her skin and nails carefully, refusing to wash dishes or perform any manual labour in order to protect herself from scrapes.
Maglin was her little helper, in that regard. Always eager to protect and aid his older twin, he’d often cover for her lack of doing chores by doing them himself and letting her take all the credit selflessly. His hair was blond and kept short, though he longed for it to be longer. His skin was tanned from being out in the sun too much, and his legs were strong from running about endlessly. He was always getting into trouble and Idryl would always cover for him – he was reading with her, she’d fib.
So slowly the heated dinning room filled with bodies, older relatives, and family friends. Their parents stopped bickering, instead opting for an overly cheerful and almost sickeningly love struck manner, her mother’s long, sinewy fingers interlaced in her father’s thick, blunt ones. Idryl and Maglin stood patiently, their own stubby fingers intertwined together, sticky from some stolen and shared jam.
Once they were adequately dismissed with a rude wave of fingers, the twins returned to the kitchen and sat down at the small wooden table, their own food mashed together and cut smally, eliciting bitterness from both of them as the scuffed and reluctantly pressed some food through their waiting lips. After a few minutes Maglin stood, without a word, and with each quiet little foot he moved closer to the closed, heavy wooden door, his long and slender ear pressed against it. Idryl sat silently at the table, playing with the food that would normally delight her, but not nearly so enjoyable when there was information to gain.
Maglin tiptoed back and sat back down, stuffing some turkey into his mouth as his cerulean eyes stared off in a thoughtful manner. Idryl watched him with her tiny, puckered lips left agape as she kicked her foot at him under the table and hissed out in a whisper, “so!”
Maglin darted at this, looking at her and finishing swallowing the mouthful of food, his voice small, “they were talking about sending us to boarding school! Out in Dalaran!”
Idryl’s eyes went alight for the briefest of seconds before she pushed clumsily away from the table, running to the door and mimicking his actions. Her hands and ears pressed to the door she leaned in order to hear better before collapsing through the door at her mother’s mother’s feet. She let out a loud cry that turned quickly to a banshee squeal, both of them being sent quite quickly to their own, private rooms.
Idryl and Maglin had been outside their family home, deviously snuck in the dark alleyway listening to the fighting and cussing and wanton behaviours when the sounds of the scourge infiltration filtered into the streets. Ducking into a wine cellar, they sat in wait and when they heard the howling wails of torture and depravity, they sunk deeper still into the sewers, running through the stinking hole until they finally hit daybreak at the edge of the city.
Maglin had always had a way with words, especially around their parents, his ability to string words together to befuddle or amaze them particularly acute. He had been not only able to talk them out of boarding school, but to allow them more freedom and ability to ‘explore their creative side’ as he had put it. Idryl’s creative side was more in line with reading complicated books on magic where as Maglin had a firmer grasp of wordplay and trickery.
There was a large house towards the other end of town, a rich and gluttonous man living there. He was alone, but for his servants that were ever rotating and a new mistress who sought his wealth nearly monthly; never were they able to put up with his sour moods much longer than that.
He wore expensive and finely tailored clothing at all times and was coated head to foot in fine jewels. However, what made him a target for the dashing Maglin more than any of that was his lewd and crude comments to any pacing lady, including his sister. The boy took great delight in filching a pocket watch here or a golden goblet there, always running home to show off his new bounty held between his nimble fingers.
After the scourge had abandoned the city they had went to his house only to find it empty of both quel’dorei and valuables.
Only by virtue of Idryl’s cunning mind and Maglin’s agile fingers were they able to survive the utter genocide of their people, thieving and bartering and running and hiding until at last the scourge left their City and the Sin’dorei were born. Maglin and Idryl returned eagerly to the broken streets of their home, scrounging on what they could to survive.
Idryl’s zaftig body sat atop the plush couch, her mildly rounded cheeks and soft jaw turned from her lean and handsome brother in protest, nose in the air. Her lips were carefully made up to a cranberry pigment, standing out against the pale, white flesh with the lower lip pushed forward in a pout. Her ears were erect in annoyance, her hair carefully brushed and curled to frame her milky, smooth skin.
Her large eyes were closed to mere slits, the emerald glow of her eyes illuminating her long, soft lashes, the charcoal coloured lining making them appear thick and exotic. Her ruby robes, though obviously tailored and hemmed and patched, were bright and carefully maintained with no loose threads or uncared for holes. Her legs curved out of the bottom of the lace skirt, white and smooth, ending with carefully selected, though modest, shoes.
Maglin’s eyebrows were furrowed with sorrow, his mouth moving, though he couldn’t recollect the exact words he used to convince his sister to come out on the field with him and help to earn gold and luxury for themselves. For her. She was his princess, his loving and doting sister, and he craved more than anything to be able to provide for her. But, alas, he was young and didn’t have nearly the earning potential to keep her in the manner of finery which she expected and, he would argue, deserve.
He promised that if she went with him, kept him company on his journeys, she could rest once more and be treated as royalty. Soon. Slowly her face had turned to him, long and slender ears drooping in defeat with an exasperated sigh of annoyance. Idryl stood slowly and wrapped her arms around her twin, pressing her soft frame to his sturdy torso in a long and tearful hug.
Though she had agreed, it was through great reluctance and required daily coaxing and reminders. She refused to walk if she could help it, relying upon her fel knowledge to protect her both in the use of armour and in demons bound to her bidding. The day they were finally able to purchase a hawkstrider for her to ride upon was one of the happiest days in those young and difficult times.
It was a warm and balmy night in Un’goro, camping under the stars that the topic came up once more about Idryl’s desire to rest. There were other means in which to procure funds for their travel and one that would keep them in gold for long enough – not forever, but perhaps enough time for Maglin to be able to earn more. There were buyers, after all, for all manners of exotic or interesting objects and pieces. And perhaps, if there could be a buyer with enough gold and enough desire for all things youthful, they would be able to sell that delicate chastity that Idryl had held on to for all these long years.
They spooned into one another’s arms, Idryl’s body slowly taking on a more toned form from the physical exertion and the lack of rich foods which she lamented daily. Maglin’s body remained firm and hard, lean and strong, his boyish form curled around her adoringly. His nose rested atop her hair, breathing in her scent as she swallowed hard, feeling the pounding of his chest against her back.
It all spilled out in a fury of heat and passion and decades of longing and desire and repressed want. For years they had lived off one another, fed off one another, and it finally, in the glow of the Un’goro heat, they submitted.
Things sometimes have a way of biting you in the ass when you least expect it. Maglin had gone back to Silvermoon and ran into that wealthy nobleman he so loved to filch from, and then the rogue did what came natural to him. However, his fingers must have hesitated or perhaps his reflection was seen in the glass. Regardless of how it happened, it did.
Maglin’s hand, smooth and polished despite all the rough work he was putting in sank within those crimson robes, grabbing a hard and round object, lifting it with slow and careful precision. The fat man argued about the price of some crackers with the man in front of him, stating he should simply bring them from home if they’re going to charge him.
And then, in a flurry, Maglin’s hand was caught and though he struggled, he was captured. Silvermoon, the police state as it were and despite the rampant crime and mafias of its underbelly, still maintained a prison outside the city walls, and it was inside this prison that the dashing boy rogue was sent.
Idryl, at the loss of her brother, was irate. Brilliant though she was, it would take time to concoct a plan, though. She set to work right away, not daring to sleep as she poured over different ideas focussing on different forms of rescue. Drugging the guards, hurting them, causing them to cry in fear. Damaging the walls, working from the inside… She began thinking with portals, pouring over the different knowledge she could absorb before finally settling on a plan.
She went to the jail on a routine and scheduled visitation, having no need to lie about her family status. She explained to the portly guard who seemed quite enamoured with her own Ruebenesque frame that she just needed to speak with him about the family funds while he was serving his time. He allowed her in, his eyes trailing to her behind as she walked to the visitation room.
He had searched her, of course – rather thoroughly. Too thoroughly for her tastes, though she dared not complain. However, not all magic could be confined by the runes and with a quick flick of her wrists a tiny vial appeared in her hands, so small that it were smaller than the size of her pinkie nail.
When she sat across from her brother, they both looked tired, but their exhaustion was hidden by their exuberance at just seeing one another again. She slipped him the vial, knowing full well he needn’t have any instructions for it.
She left and, showing uncharacteristic speed, ran from through the prison doors in a flurry of false tears and anguish, putting on a show for the leering guard. Once she was free from prying eyes, she created a small portal, far smaller than the normal demon wardrobe. Reaching through the nether, she cried out for Maglin in Erodun, pulling his tiny form towards her with a triumphant shout. Her magical concoction had shrunk him to allow for safer passage through the nether and he was the size of no more than a cat. She reached him to her bosom, crying out in delight as he slowly returned to his normal, elfin size.
It was not long after the twins reuniting that Anjasa Vilelight entered the scene. They had joined the Tribe before his prison stint. It was mostly as another avenue to pedal the wares the two created – Idryl would come up with the pleasurable little concoctions and Maglin would mark it up and sell it off, ensuring many happy returns. When he heard that their Chieftess was hosting a training in swords and stealth, he lept at the chance. Idryl, not having the least amount of interest in her brothers ‘rough housing’, as she called it, stayed home with her runes and her books.
After the official training, Maglin approached the older woman, asking for more private help and, to his surprise, she agreed. She showed him the proper manner to use a sword, a dagger, teaching him how to be apt, to use your enemy against you, to plan for the unexpected. She informed him, in detail, about how to survive on your own and how to use your cunning to get out of the way of a greater foe.
And then, before either of them understood the significance of what was happening, she was teaching him tricks of the flesh trade; first hand. Of how to titillate older women, of how to act the part of the young boy, of how to indulge fantasies. She coaxed him to shave and then she began selling him to high scale clients that wanted a fresh faced young man to swoon for them.
No stranger was his elder rogue to the delights and deviances of sexual pleasure and prowess, and she was not one to deny the power it allowed you to have over all manners of people. To remain flexible, open minded.
The love affair of Anjasa Vilelight and Maglin Bitterose was hot and swift, passionate and salacious; no taboo was off limits. She built him a Mechanohog and, in exchange, he would service the best clients she knew, putting in the effort to make them feel desirable and sexual, making sure they enjoy.
The spent many evenings together, selling one another. Jumwa had given permission for her to return to her whoring ways, so desperately she needed the variety and so greedily she wanted the income. Even the great Jumwa’jin couldn’t be everything to her.
And so they scoured the streets of Silvermoon for clients, delighted at the shared dirtiness of their affections. Sometimes they would start the evening together, but always did they end it together. It was short lived, however.
Anjasa knew what was coming. She had planned it and cornered him and she knew it was coming and she couldn’t help but want it. Jumwa’jin had a temper. He once told her that he would flay her and consume her and feed bits of herself to her should she ever sleep with anyone that threatened his power. And knowing this, she still needled him into action.
Many days he had beaten her, and many days she had deserved it, practically begging for it in the slyest of manners. She would limp about, bruised and bloodied, but her soul would be calm and sedated.
However, her new found affection for the dashing your swordsman was not being sedated, nor calmed, nor cooled. They tussled and rumbled and spent the night sleeping in one another’s arms with no pretence of sex. Anjasa was reminded of the good and the warmth and the security of having someone love you and never wish to harm you.
There was only one thing she was concerned about, and it was not herself – it was Jumwa’jin’s son. He was squired away to an orphanage, then hidden in their cabin with a nurse and full day care. No one knew of him, and his mother was long since killed by a certain Shadow Cat. Inside a gem she carved laid his name and wareabouts and with the utmost care, she passed this jewel to Maglin, making him promise that should anything happen to her, he must shatter the ruby and seek out what lay inside.
And so, she goaded her husband to attack, and attack he did. Never was he in such a flurry and all the way she begged for it, begged for the pain, begged for the sweet release of unconsciousness. It did not come – instead, with a final toss, he threw her from the window. Maglin was on the alert below and stole her away at the first moment he could without rousing attention, his heart breaking as he watched his lover’s battered form get treated as nothing more than a doll.
The rogue had no manner in which to heal her grievous wounds and brought her to the only ones he knew in the area of Zul’waja. Andulin Sunscorn and Celebrin Spiritglow kept a small house connected to Andulin’s tailoring shop and, as luck would have it, they were home. Celebrin set to work healing Anjasa’s wounds and Andulin and Maglin fretted to and fro, none of them speaking much.
Healed enough to move, though it was uncomfortable, Maglin and Anjasa hid away in a secluded room, biding their hours or days or weeks before Anjasa’s inevitable return. Even through all of this, they both know that her heart could never leave her brutal master’s, so enraptured was she in the violence and anger and pain.
She made arrangements with Andulin, at the mage’s suggestion, to have a secret and hidden house atop their tailoring shop with all the niceties of a small apartment, allowing them privacy that they craved in their small little city. Anjasa returned to Jumwa with a clearer head, and a less burdened heart. Maglin returned to his sister… and asked her to leave.
It was the noblest of purposes in his mind. He feared that Jumwa would find out about the elicit affair he was having with his bride and seek to hurt him in the most painful of ways. He could not bare to lose Idryl, but he couldn’t abandon Anjasa to the whims of her troll lover.
Besides, her argued, she would be pleased there. It would give her ample room to study and research, and he would visit and write frequently. The best laid plans. Besides, it was temporary.
The tower was in the hills of Alterac and at first, Idryl did not mind the cool weather and the winters breeze and the howls of the wilderness outside. She kept a large fire going in her library and went to work on her biggest project to date. She had heard rumours of Incubi and decided that, rather than the Sapphic affections of her succubus, she could and should have more.
Maglin was always so jealous of her felguard, even though she made it certain he did not have anything on which to impale her – in the interest of safety. However, were she to have an incubus she could further the lives of lonely female warlocks for decades to come!
She had purchased many books that contained reference, though they were all brief and fleeting and did not tell her what she required. However, combined with the knowledge of the nethers and the succubi and the demon lords she set to work, turning her library into a work of intricate runes.
They glowed softly at all hours, the flames of fel engraved in them deeply. Even the fire was beginning to take a fel tint to it. To ease the loneliness, she kept her succubus out more and more, finding her a useful tool in both research and in the more practical needs of a woman who refused to lift a finger.
And so the two researched and studied and practiced and failed. It was in the best interest of the succubus to help, as it were, since Idryl had promised her a newfound stud of a friend, but that didn’t stop the succubus from twisting her tongue and spinning her tales.
The visits from Maglin became less and less frequent, first going a week or two between letters, and then more, weeks fading away to dust. By the time she received her first letter from the anonymous J.J. it had been several months since she last saw her darling brother.
She found out later that the demoness was confiscating his gushing love letters, lamenting at how she refused his calls and refused to write, and was turning him from the door and telling him hateful and hurtful things that his loving twin had said of him. Idryl’s letters were confiscated in kind – one of the reasons why you shouldn’t trust a demon to do all your house work.
After months of writing to her warm and caring and utterly brilliant J.J., she returned home to Silvermoon to meet with him, having not the faintest idea about his true identity. When it was the husky voice of a troll that introduced herself, her spine straightened and her chest caught before she recognized him as the Chieftain of her Tribe.
It had been months of loneliness and depression and frustrating, crushing defeats in the field of her study. The incubi was never born of her hands, afterall, and she had no gentleman callers in her hidden prison.
It was a good thing the lady was able to enjoy the pleasure and pain of their eager consummation, so consumed were they both after the teasing letters and their troubled love lives.
Anjasa invited him to their hotel room – the hotel room that they had escaped to before and after… the incident. It was completely sound proof, completely cut off from the rest of the world, and she ordered no room keeping – it was all there when he arrived. Platters of food piled high, the freshest, the ripest, the richest. The most expensive bottles of wine, the most rare herbs pressed into the pipes, tiny paper cigarettes stored carefully. The bed was carefully arranged with the leather bindings and Anjasa wore a black catsuit from her neck down, the material glossy and emphasising her curves.
As he arrived she tied him down and fed him food and ground atop his body, writhing. She aimed to heat his head enough, dull his senses enough that he would be pliable and more willing to accept what was happening at the moment. Idryl was marrying her husband.
It was an awkward situation, at the very least. Something that, of course, Anjasa had brought down upon herself. After he had beaten her the last time, Jumwa reminded her of her whoring, of her sleeping around, spreading herself thin. He also reminded her of his own hesitance to do the same – indeed, he was largely loyal but for when she coaxed him. And he further reminded her of troll customs and responses to power.
She wasn’t happy with his decision to begin looking for another bride, and yet her heart longed for Maglin and she convinced herself it was for the better. She had no idea that he would choose another elf, let alone Maglin’s twin. She was suspicious of his true intent in finding her lover’s sister to bed with, but who was she to say? If she said no, what would he do in retaliation? If she said no… selfishly she worried about losing her own elicit lover, the other man that had taken that part of her heart.
And so she agreed, reluctantly, and opted not to tell Maglin until the deed was done – after all, if Jumwa were willing to kill his wife, he wouldn’t think nothing of killing his wife’s lover should he come to protest.
Anjasa’s body squirmed against him as she told him, rubbing along him, breaking it to him gently. She caressed him and soothed him as his face fell into one of great despair. His emotions clouded his head, his eyes until no more did he see the sex goddess atop him but only the past of him and his sister, their love so eagerly pined for for so many years, and so quickly cast aside by circumstance.
And there was further pain, a final sting to all of this. Jumwa’jin had claimed both of the women he loved.
A beautifully written letter on expensive paper. Despite the skill and quality of the writing and instruments, a couple mistakes are made and crossed out.
My lady Id,
As I await renewed assault in these chilled towering halls, I find my mind ever drifting back to you. No, not simply my promise to investigate herbal possibilities here, though on that I have not forgotten, I assure you. My mind, instead, focuses mostly on how comforting your warm embrace would be. I feel the only thing that could rip the chill from my bones here would to be nestled upon our favourite seat in the study by the fire with you curled upon my lap.
It is a wretched, sinister cold, my sweet lady. It pierces my being like no sensation of hot or cold has in many a year.
As you may recall, my previous studies and experimentation’s have left me with a rather dulled appreciation for changes in temperature. I sweat in heat, but I rarely notice it. Cold, especially, is something that goes totally unnoticed. Even atop the Storm Peaks I felt nothing of it out of the ordinary. However, here, I find it sinks into my very being. It is a disturbing feeling after so long.
It is wholly without sympathy to the realm of the living. It perhaps explains why I have not found you so much as a weed to harvest from this towering Citadel, no matter how deep or high I plumb it.
Soon we shall march on the laboratory, however, and from it I pledge my word that something of value shall be returned to you for study. This labyrinth is not void of knowledge, of that we can be most certain. And from it you must be among the first recipients of that hidden wealth of knowledge. I shall not fail you, and my axe swings shall strike all the harder in the name of you, glorious lady Idryl Bitterose, and your pursuit of knowledge.
My time runs short. The clods and nincompoops about me finally pull themselves together and manage to remember they are a fighting force.
I hope soon I return home to you, trophies and prizes of discovery in arms, to a heroes welcome. For to be champion of your cause is my chief aim, a thundering legion in one that serves your mighty purpose. Our mighty purpose.
Your sweet lips, tender touch and supple, yielding body await me beyond these ghostly walls. I know it, though the place seeks to steal the memory of the feeling from me.
Your Knight Errant,
A note on expensive, thick paper, made with very elegant and fine handwriting.
My dearest wife,
The inner calm you instill within me is forever tempered and challenged by the unquenchable yearning fire that burns inside me for you and you alone. You inspire me to great acts of cognition and discovery at the same time you taunt and tempt me with your every word and motion to fall to my knees and plead for your merciful embrace.
The great and noble pursuit of knowledge first united us, as two bright minds drawn to each others light in the dark night. Were I condemned to never set my touch to your flesh I would love and cherish you no less, for your brilliance warms and guides me across distances insurmountable by mortals.
Though to stand by you each day, my own flesh, already turgid with desire for you, is set ablaze, like love and lust doubled upon itself in amounts unequaled by living experience and memory, untold and untellable by the greatest of poets and song writers.
Were I given the chance, my desires unleashed, I would thrust myself into you until all passion was spent, and pray to deities true or false for vigor renewed, that I might never cease in my own reverence at the alter that is your supremely graceful mental chalice. That glorious flesh which cups and holds your thoughts without unduly binding them to our limited material coil.
I cherish you like no other, I respect your mind beyond all other example. Though beneath it and through it the flames of my yearning lick through, it is a lust born not merely from the physical need of your bountiful and luscious physical form. No, the fires that crawl beneath my skin at every moment, waking and unwaking alike, are part of my need to make myself one with you. To bring body and mind, and mind and body together. To stimulate in you pleasure that might transmit my desire to see you gratified.
I lust for your deliciously cunning mind as readily as I do your curvaceous, sumptuous flesh. I can only wish that I were in and of you now, that our flesh were become one, and from it our minds stimulated to frenzy in equal fashion, that we might walk the same path of sensation as lovers on a forest path hand in hand. So as tendrils of lightning satisfaction spread through our being and our psyches, that they would be shared in equal part you and me. That in body and mind no being could dare conjecture that we were not one at this moment in any sense of the phrase.
To steady my hand so as to place pen to paper takes struggle in copious amounts equal to that required for the most momentous of battles. My limbs quiver with their ache for you. The pillar of my male desire exists solely for you, refuses to rest to any and all machinations but those of your making. That eventually it will lay within you again is the sole thought that steadies my mind and keeps me from madness of spirit.
You, dearest and most beloved and desired Id, are the fuel of my heart and felfire of my loins. Unique and totally unalike any other, you are my passion and desire, my drive and my goal.
Ever needful of you,
It was just after dawn break when Anjasa stirred in her oversized bed. Easily big enough to comfortably sleep up to six large people, it only held two small elves tonight. She curled into his strong arms and though he shifted at her movements, she quickly coaxed him back into sleep.
The room wasn’t big enough for the large, oversized furniture, though they had made do with what room they had. They decorated it in dark silks and mageweaves, struggling to find the balance of home that had once been theirs. The curtains blew over the bed in a strong breeze, the dressers pressed together tightly to make room for the massive bed.
The morning was her weakest – the time she spent sorting the puzzle of her brain into tiny, decipherable remains, taking them apart and rearranging them in careful rows, struggling in the morning stillness to find her balance.
She trailed her fingers over her thighs as she shifted through the fragments of her life, of the personalities she had adopted. There was an attack on Zul’waja several months ago. The darkness had come to her and the Tribe in their sleep. But when Anjasa stopped sleeping, the visitor did not stop whispering to her. Though her memory of the day she snapped is hazy, she knew the details. That she had uttered all her alias’. That she had been all of them, at once. All of them fighting for dominance of her mind.
The quiet little mage that wanted more than what she could handle – a happy life, with love and marriage and a slightly odd living arrangement that included a happy trio rather than a couple. The little girl, slinking towards danger without the faintest idea of what it could lead to. Then there was Sunah. Dangerous, endangered little Sunah. Bound and gagged and tortured and beaten. She was the one. She had coloured all other personalities. Every time Anjasa pushed her down, she was back again, rearing her fanged head, her raven black pixie hair. Her strength and power was unmatched.
Her life had changed in that jail – she had changed. The world had changed. Decades had gone by, it felt like, though she had no way of knowing. But the jailer, he had aged a great deal in her time there. She didn’t blame him, though. After all he had done, after all he had taken from her, she still had a softness in her heart for the vulnerable, corrupted man he was. After he had removed her uterus, instead of the rage she should have felt, she had only felt a childish dependence on him.
She mourned him when he died, for many years. Though she returned to Silvermoon, she returned an outcast, hiding in the forests between the Amani and the elves, living with the two troll twins that had saved her. She was a broken tool. A faulty spy. She would take bribes to cover up anything, even if it meant her own skin was threatened. And it was. And when she was removed from spying for having a sick and twisted mind, she turned to the only thing that had mattered to her; that she was any good at. That she could make money with. She was on her own; her troll saviors had been killed. Her body was still ripe.
She made attempts at happiness, little futile grasping attempts. She looks back on her time as a librarian with a ripe form of bemused irony. All she needed to do was to lend books, to come home to her husband, to help him raise her little girl. She had all the time to paint and read and write, and she did. But even with the abundance of tasks she had set for herself, her attention still wandered. Even with his loving, tender, husbandly touches, she needed more.
And she sought it. She needed attention, and she needed more than husbandly caresses. She was aging and though no one but her could tell, she needed the desire and the fanatic carnal lust that came with being a working girl. And when her husband found out, he had burnt all her things, all her clothing, all her books but for the ones she had hidden in the library; but for her diaries and biographies and mad, all encompassing, frantic writing. She left with nothing, and went back to doing what she did best.
That’s what she always did. The safe route. Let the strongest part dominate, to control, to lead her by the collar. Even now, isn’t that what is happening?
Anjasa sorts through her history, putting it in line, following the trail. Studying it with a detached, cold sort of look. The wind blew into the room and she considered closing the window shutters for the briefest of moments, but decided against it until she had finished. Every morning she struggled to go through the ritual, analyzing all her wrong turns, bad moves.
There were gaps in her logic, and holes in her tale, parts of her history too gruesome to focus upon in her fragile state. But then, she had been in this state for months. And she was happy, she told herself. She had the world. Everything she had ever wanted at any point of time was hers to grasp.
She lowered her soft, elven hands to her stomach, stroking it gently with a tiny coo, wet tears forming in the corner of her eyes. The presence of the old god was still with her, lurking in the shadows, looking at the frayed edges of her life. She struggled every day to behave, to not allow Sunah to wield her power. It was a constant study to keep calm and in check and to not let her jealousy and anger and pain and hurt overcome her. To not return to the safety of sadism and pain.
Even though she had it all, there was still loss. Things had been shifting under her feet, caused by her but rippling towards unknowns. She had gotten too greedy in her life and was now paying retribution for it in her own manners. Jumwa. It was painful when it came time to relive their relationship, of how they met, of how they courted. Of how quickly she would still sacrifice herself for him, throw herself on the sword. And of how far they had managed to drift.
It was her fault, of course. It always was. She always was excellent at self sabotage and pushing those she loved away. She knew just the buttons to press, in what frequency. And so she pushed until he had another lover and another wife and another friend. She had her own lovers and friends, of course, but she wanted the world. He wanted to be her world. But even Anjasa Vilelight, Death’s Mate; his mate, could not dedicate her life to the cause.
She curled up tighter against Maglin as the tears slowly streaked her dewy morning cheeks, the liquid pooling on the soft, silk pillow. She tried to rush through the memories, a lump growing in her chest filled with regret and resentment over her needs, settling instead on the future.
Even though the present lay divided, the future held a happy family. Two mothers. Two fathers. A big troll brother and his tiny elfin sister. All of them caring for one another, happy, hidden into the woods. Away from the pain and agony that others had caused. This was the future that Anjasa was working for, even though she knew that there was no hope for it. She could never retire. She could never relax. It took all her energy to beat the beast back into her head day to day. She let herself be used, just to turn off the fear and anger for the time.
The blonde haired elf carried the weight of the world on her shoulders and always wanted for more. There was no happiness in store for this one.
Maglin stirred next to her, his hand instinctively pressing to her lower stomach, his strong hand protective as he opens his sleepy eyes to look at her, a smile immediately forming on his face. She had brushed the tears from her face and she smiled back at him. It was the only part of her life that wasn’t an act – her affection for those around her. For Maglin. For Jumwa. Even for Idryl. For the bodies pressed against hers, reminding her she was alive. For the Tribe.
She smiled back at him, her lips pink and lush, her cheeks a light pink hue, “Morning,” she mumbles in a groggy voice, though she had been up for over an hour at this point.
“Morning,” he smiles as he nuzzles his nose into her smooth, straight hair. “How did you sleep?” he nuzzles again, rubbing at her stomach with a soft, caressing hand.
“Fine,” she lies softly, her voice breaking.
“How’s Jade?” he grins an eager, boyish grin as he begins to rise, his nude body slowly revealed from under the sheets.
“I’m sure she’s just fine,” she sits as well, her hand pressing to his as it rests on her stomach, both of them looking down in a quietly excited manner before Anjasa slowly slipped out of bed, confident that the pieces of her puzzle were once again in place for the day.
“Rah-jah-neee” a voice in the darkness hissed, causing the petite blood elf to stop dead in her tracks, a slow tickle of fear tracing up her spine. She whipped around to the direction of the voice, squinting into the blackness, shadows dancing across the stacks of crates and bags.
Ratchet was unusually quiet for the moment and she was alone, dressed more for a bar than a fight. Anjasa cursed at herself inwardly for her carelessness, reaching into a boot for the small, serrated blade she always carried.
She crouched a bit, poised to spring when a loud burst of drunken laughter spewed into the street. She brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she gave one more darting glance to the garbage before darting off towards the gaggle of young drunkards.
“Someone is followin’ me,” she whispered to Jumwa, sitting next to him in a tiny booth. Between them, on the table, was a large pitcher filled with a crimson liquid. He poured some for himself, taking a long, slow sip. Anjasa’s eyes were wide and dark, the usual glint of fun missing. She shivered slightly, though the room was hot with bodies, and her normally pink-hued skin was pale and drab.
The bar around them was large and the Tauren Chieftains played on stage, drowning out any bit of conversation to any a couple of yards away. The bodies of the crowd moved in unison, their glinting forms rubbing together as they jumped and danced.
Jumwa put the heavy mug on the table with a hollow ‘clunk’, pushing it away slightly, looking at her in the face. His eyes were cold and hard, his expression stern. He nodded and turned back to the crowd, laying a heavy, blue arm over her shoulder and pulling her to him roughly.
“D’en we find d’em and kill d’em for scaring my Anjasa,” he nodded again, leaning down and kissing the crown of her head. She nodded against his chest, a dull shiver running down her naked arm.
For a few days the shadows stopped chasing her and she concluded she was jumpy over nothing more than a brief spurt of paranoia brought on by her drugs. However, there it was: a solid red envelope waiting for her in the mail, chicken scratched writing on the front in a brilliant gold, addressing it to her. Looking on either side, staring suspiciously at those around her she pocketed the envelope and moved to the nearest inn. Curtly booking a room and throwing down the gold up front, she scurried up the stairs, slamming the door behind her.
She moved to the tiny red table next to the window and tossed the envelope onto it, plopping herself down in the chair, staring. She brought one of her hands to the other, ringing them and pressing at her cuticles. Slowly she reached for it, then retreated, her slender hands shaking violently. She bit at her lower lip, her green eyes scanning the paper for some form of a trap, her mind reeling with possibilities.
She slowly grabbed for the dagger from her boot, slicing the end of the envelope open and letting it flitter to the table. For a quick moment she thought of how harmless it looked, knowing nothing the letter contained could be good news.
I hope you will pardon using the name I am most familiar with as opposed to your newest one. I must say, I much prefer Jenek, as it were. A shame you did not keep it.
Let us not worry about such frivolities, however. I, of course, have contacted you for a purpose. Since you have left Stromguard, it has been through much hardship. Having followed your lengthy career for some time, I have recently discovered that you have acquired quite a bit of wealth. Wealth that could be better used paying back your debts, with interest.
I certainly hope you remember me, Jenek. I may be heartbroken if you do not. Should you choose to comply, I hope you will come meet me outside the gates this evening. If you do not, we may have to pick apart another of your nearest and dearest.