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Below, Jaina Proudmoore and Sylvanas Windrunner lay on the throne together. For some, this might not have been possible; but the Dark Lady of the Forsaken’s was easily big enough for the two of them.
And, of course, they were naked.
It was far from the most surprising thing recently observed. He had seen them locked in their power plays, carnal desires, and final fulfillment. Their moans had rent the air, their bodies crying out in pleasure and release.
To many a mortal man, the sight might have been one of immense arousal and excitement. Even to a member of the Forsaken, with all of the drawbacks having a near-undead body could have, it still had quite an effect on Athelion Dallbright. How could it not, featuring these two particularly beautiful participants?
Below, the two women had only recently completed their final lovemaking, rubbing their pussies against each other until they cried out in near mutual orgasm. Their love had been fierce to see then and even now, as both of them lingered in the aftermath.
Athelion had seen them through all of it.
He had always spied upon the Royal Chambers here from afar, rapt with interest in the politics of the court. His father had first sent him to hone his skills against the best trackers the Forsaken had to offer…and perhaps collect a few useful tidbits of court gossip as well.
It had perhaps been natural that Athelion had become quite taken with the principal member of the court. Sylvanas Windrunner, Banshee Queen, had always been such a powerful, regal monarch for their kind, the Forsaken. She had maintained her power through numerous trials, and her combat prowess was legendary. Athelion had observed firsthand how she had managed to put down the rebellion of her majordomo Dreadlord Varimathras. Rumours also persisted that she had even run afoul of and bested Arthas himself, the Lich King’s own Death Knight champion. No one knew for sure of the last but Sylvanas herself.
To add to her attributes of strength, and cunning, she could add enchanting beauty as well. The Dark Ranger was favoured with all of the natural good looks of her former Elf kind and well beyond even that high standard.
Athelion thought inwardly as he cast a final glance at the two women below. How could he not fall for his Banshee Queen? There were few in Azeroth who could resist such charms. Least of all, it seemed, the proud Archmage of the Kirin Tor, Jaina Proudmoore.
What would he do now? Well, first of all, he couldn’t stay here.
For a moment longer, his eyes lingered downwards upon the resting couple with their peach and blue forms, living and…not quite living, intertwined with one another. Then he left without a sound. Sylvanas had almost supernatural senses, Athelion knew, but even she couldn’t hear what was not there.
This was not the first time Athelion had snuck in. The Deathguards that protected Sylvanas’ Royal Court were quite vigilant, at least compared to the mindless Undead Scourge or the lazy human guards of Stormwind. However, Athelion had known the Undercity since he had been a child. He was also well schooled by his famous father in matters of warcraft and the roguish arts. Every successful spying mission had only served to hone his skills further.
Athelion continued his secret way back from the Royal Quarter of the Undercity, slipping soundlessly through dark paths towards the dwelling he and his family called home. He contemplated on the circumstances of what he had to tell his father, and then considered for the first time not telling him.
Everything he had he owed to his father, the powerful Lord Seneschal of the Royal Court. After Sylvanas had seen her traitorous majordomo Varimathras executed, she had need of a right hand once more. Rather than see the corrupted position filled, Sylvanas had simply created a new one with the same responsibilities. Veryn Dallbright had served ably as Sylvanas’ second, defending the Bulwark from the undead as well as serving as a proven commander in Hillsbrad and Silverpine Forest against the Alliance.
How could he not tell him? Athelion was close to his father. Some said that the Forsaken were not capable of love or family, but they remembered their old lives quite well. As a result, family life endured through even the curse of undeath. If Athelion told his father, he did not know what would be the consequences.
The moment of decision was close at hand. Their household loomed near, a former inn, a spacious household but not necessarily as big as it could have been for the Lord Seneschal. Athelion would not allow himself to slow, instead moving at the same swift pace, forcing himself to decide.
With the easy precision and grace of a true professional rogue, Athelion dove off the roof of a nearby house smoothly through the open window of his own home.
He had entered, as he knew he would, back into his own room. The same one as when he had still lived, a long time ago as a simple teenage son and burgeoning rogue.
Briskly, Athelion continued elazığ escort through his room to his father’s study. There, behind a desk in the grim darkness suffused only by single tallow candle, was the sunken face and the signature Forsaken bright eyes of his father. Veryn.
A former high-ranked member of SI:6, Veryn Dallbright had been serving as a representative of his service in the former Capital City of Lordaeron when the Undead Scourge had come. Teenage Athelion had remembered the chaos. The human court reeling in shock at the news their longtime King Terenas was dead and his killer, their own beloved Crown Prince Arthas, had turned to evil.
Veryn had died there fighting and, like so many champions of humanity, returned as a member of the Undead Scourge. Athelion and his mother had suffered the same fate, not in the same type of glamorous last stand, but in the almost casual slaughter of the common populace afterward. As mindless thralls the family had endured until Sylvanas had come to the Undercity with fire, steel and her puppet Garithos to free them from the Scourge.
And here they were. Not undead, not living, but something in between. Something less, and something more. Father and son. Forsaken.
“Athelion.” His father still had the dark hair he remembered, lank and lifeless, but he was getting old. Age didn’t mean much to the Forsaken’s lifespan, but the effect of time on limbs and the body was still prevalent. Veryn had been an excellent rogue, but in his continuing debilitating age he had turned instead to the politics. His martial legacy continued through his son.
“Father.” Athelion looked at him steadily, and he stood where he had stood hundreds of time before to tell his father what he had seen. His mind was still in turmoil. If he told his father, what would he do with that knowledge? What would ensue? The only alternative was to break his covenant with his own father, to lie to his own blood.
“What do you have to tell me, my son?” Veryn looked up from his parchment, his eyes and curious.
Athelion paused a moment longer, deciding for the final time.
Then he spoke.
***
There had been no greater sense of fulfillment for either of them.
Sylvanas Windrunner was still aglow with her long-desired release, exhausted from her long-awaited double orgasm. Resplendently nude on her Dark Throne, the Banshee Queen of the Forsaken was smiling, an uncommon appearance on that often cold blue face. Her hand snaked upwards to gently stroke the blonde-white head of her lover nestled on her chest.
Jaina Proudmoore, famed sorceress, could still not believe recent events and what she had done. After all her defenses, all of her protestations, the Banshee Queen had won her over. She had not thought it likely, or even possible, and yet here she was, her head pillowed by Sylvanas’ more than ample, naked bosom.
Jaina had come as straight-arrow as they could come. Born into nobility as a member of the Proudmoore family, a blossoming young woman with innate magical talent, there seemed to be no stopping her career. Beyond her powers, she was also bestowed with a considerable beauty that drew numerous suitors. No less than the Prince of Quel’Thalas Kael’thas Sunstrider and the young Prince of Lordaeron, Arthas Menethil, had been drawn to the vibrant, vivacious sorceress. Jaina had been happy at the time to share her life with such strong, powerful men. Even more recently, she had even drawn the recent attention of a creature far more powerful than man…
With all that, she had never expected to be with a woman…particularly not this one…
Yet here they were. The Archmage of the Kirin Tor and the Banshee Queen of the Undercity, laying together on the Dark Throne of the Forsaken.
During the ferocity of their lovemaking and flushes of heat through their bodies, the cold air of the Royal Chambers had seemed like such an inconsequential thing. Now that those glorious moments had passed though, reality set in. Jaina gave a little shiver as her body cooled in the unforgiving air. Of course, for Sylvanas, the conditions meant little. But her lover was a living breathing woman, something Sylvanas enjoyed and counted on.
Who else but this beautiful living young woman could have licked her pussy so well? Sent the proud Banshee Queen of the Forsaken into not one but two shattering orgasms? The recent, powerful memories were the reason behind Sylvanas’ idle smile.
Settled on the Dark Ranger, her pink nude form gleaming in unrestrained female beauty, Jaina gave a second shiver through closed eyes as another draft swept over the two. Carefully, Sylvanas wrapped one arm around her, gently crushing Jaina’s large breasts, while reaching over the throne’s side to search for something.
Jaina felt strongly content in that embrace. A feeling of security she had not known since her last encounter with Arthas surrounded her. So much had gone wrong in her life since those idealistic beginnings. Here at long last, she erzincan escort felt safe.
But Jaina was still cold. While Sylvanas’ arm was surprisingly warm, it was not enough for her completely naked form. The sorceress smiled to herself ruefully, immersed in recent memory. The Banshee Queen had proved herself living in more than a few ways.
Distantly, she contemplated leaving the wondrous embrace of The Dark Lady of the Forsaken to collect her clothes. Then she felt a curtain of warmth upon her.
Sylvanas had collected her cloak, one of the first garments discarded in her seduction, and settled it upon Jaina. The garment hid the beauty of Jaina Proudmoore’s nude form from the Banshee Queen’s still hungry red eyes, and Sylvanas felt mild disappointment at being deprived of the lovely sight. Granted, she could still feel the young sorceress’ warmth above her, and Sylvanas had a distant, fleeting thought of once again plundering her beauty, to spread her legs and lick at that marvelous blonde pussy again…
But no, enough of that for now. Sylvanas could feel the weariness of her former captive and newfound lover. Jaina was already descending towards sleep. Sylvanas did not feel tiredness herself, but she saw the indications in her young lover.
“Rest, Jaina.” Sylvanas purred the words into Jaina’s ear on a column of warm breath. “Rest now.”
Jaina gave a last little breath and obeyed.
***
Archmage Jaina Proudmoore had almost been afraid to sleep, afraid that it was all a dream from which she would awake away from Sylvanas. However, there was no stopping the weariness that had descended upon her, supplemented by the warmth of the cloak and of Sylvanas herself.
So she slept a dreamless, sound sleep in her lover’s arms. Above her, protectively, was Sylvanas, remaining awake with her glowing red eyes observing softly. From time to time the Banshee Queen would brush a stray lock of white-blonde hair from Jaina’s face and watch the rise and fall of Jaina’s breaths beneath the purple cloak.
Under the gaze, Sylvanas was thinking about a great many things. It was clear that Jaina was more than the conduit of release for her tension of many years. Did Jaina feel the same?
Obviously, Jaina was predisposed to her, but there were many levels of relationships. It had only started mere hours ago. Sylvanas was almost afraid to say those three golden words, the ones that meant so much in a relationship.
She had always had to be strong, and as a result she had almost forgotten what it was to be vulnerable to anyone. No one would follow a feeble Queen of the Forsaken. Factions professing loyalty would turn on her at any sign of weakness. This would be particularly true if Sylvanas confessed her love, to take a living human as consort. It would be chaos.
There was another unescapable fact though; Jaina was dangerously powerful. She was a prominent foe, a leader of the Alliance who had sworn to fight the Horde and by extension Sylvanas.
It would have been quite something for Sylvanas to have broken Jaina Proudmoore’s mental defenses, and then turned her into a mindless thrall. It would have been a symbolic victory to make both the Kirin Tor and the Alliance tremble.
It was still possible. How much could she truly trust Jaina? As a semi-living being like Sylvanas herself, Jaina could join her in making a new Forsaken world. The thought was tempting. The young sorceress was now completely helpless before her, sleeping, at least.
To deprive Jaina of life would be to take some of what made the sorceress herself. It had never troubled her before to do it to hundreds of others. But could she kill Jaina? To live a life as Forsaken, together?
As Sylvanas’ thoughts conflicted, the hours wiled away. None of the guards dared to challenge their Queen’s privacy.
Until, as they still lay naked upon each other on the Dark Throne in each other’s arms, one sleeping and the other deep in thought, someone finally came to disturb them.
Sylvanas heard the timid knock at the dark wrought doors of the Royal Chambers. The Banshee Queen broke off of her thoughts to raise her head at the intrusion, her Elf ears perking up in high, thin strands, to denote her interest.
“What is it?” she called in an authoritative tone.
“Pardons, my Queen,” came the voice of one of her Deathguards. “But the Lord Seneschal waits without. He begs an audience.”
Sylvanas sighed and looked down at the slumbering Jaina below her cloak, her breaths rising and falling gently. “I will receive him later.”
“He says it is urgent, milady.”
Damn the man. That said, he did not often raise urgent audiences often. Veryn Dallbright was a prudent commander, one of her most able subordinates. Sylvanas had found his loyalty quite strong, relying especially on such after Varimathras’ betrayal.
“Very well. I will receive him when I am prepared.”
“I will tell him so, my Queen.” She could hear the guard break away from the door.
Jaina erzurum escort was still asleep in her arms, obviously quite happy where she was, and Sylvanas once more observed the quiet beauty of the sorceress. “Jaina, my dear.” Her hands moved from stroking the white-blonde head to Jaina’s shoulders to give her a gentle shake.
The blue eyes blinked open. “Sylvanas.” Jaina gave a tired, lazy smile. “I was afraid I would wake and not see you.”
“Nothing could ever take away what we did together.” Sylvanas slowly removed the cloak from Jaina, exposing her to the cold air once more. The effect woke Jaina quickly and she looked questioningly at the Banshee Queen.
“I need you to get clothed, Jaina, and re-don your chains.” Sylvanas looked at Jaina apologetically. “My Lord Seneschal begs an urgent audience. It would look suspect for me to decline.”
Jaina paused a moment. The chains in particular troubled her, but she had come too far with Sylvanas to refuse. If the Banshee Queen truly wanted her dead, Jaina was sure she would already be. Instead the Dark Lady of the Forsaken had demonstrated a very different desire…
“Very well, Sylvanas.” She made to move up. As Jaina rose, the Banshee Queen met her lips in a tender kiss. It turned into something more, and it took some time before it finally broke, both women letting out a contented sigh as their faces parted.
“Thank you.” Sylvanas smiled at her and turned to collect her own discarded garments. Both dressed in silence, until the Banshee Queen collected the chains and placed them once more on Jaina.
As Sylvanas, clad in the Dark Ranger garb of the Queen of the Undercity, sat on her Dark Throne as if born to it, Jaina once again observed the power and beauty of the corrupted Elf-woman. She was so much more powerful than Jaina had ever known; she could feel the authority and strength radiating from her.
“The Lord Seneschal may enter.” Sylvanas said with a final, thoughtful look at Jaina on the floor in her chains.
As the dark doors opened, Jaina affected the body language and posture of an exhausted and tortured prisoner. The truth couldn’t be more opposite, as Jaina was still buoyed by memories of the night before, loving and being loved in turn by the powerful Banshee Queen herself.
The Lord Seneschal walked in briskly. He was a little stoop-shouldered, with a shock of lifeless dark hair. His face was sunken, his eyes bright. Jaina took care not to look at him too closely, instead affecting a sullen, empty stare at the ground. Even without seeing him though, there was a putrefying, horrible smell of decay about the former man that made Jaina unconsciously wrinkle her nose.
The sorceress guessed it was not uncommon for Undead to be rotting, and that the Forsaken’s sense of smell probably incorporated that. But Sylvanas hadn’t had that same rotting scent, instead smelling quite pleasant, especially the moist burrow between her thighs…
“My Queen.” The Lord Seneschal was flanked by two shambling skeleton guards, encased in patchwork armour from who-knows-what forgotten conflict. He approached and knelt before her, head upraised, while the guards remained standing beside her.
Sylvanas threw her subordinate and his guards a raking, searching glance, as the Deathguards closed the doors behind them, sealing them all inside. Jaina was suddenly afraid for Sylvanas, but the Banshee Queen did not seem perturbed in the slightest.
“What is so urgent, Veryn?” Sylvanas questioned. “We were to meet later, while you are not on campaign.”
“I have received news I am most concerned about.” The Lord Seneschal threw a small glance at the seemingly feeble, sunken prisoner on the floor in chains off to the side of the throne.
“And what news is this, Veryn?” Sylvanas spoke the words idly, but kept an edge of iron on them. As if to emphasize this, she stroked the Dark Ranger bow propped against the throne, a gesture Jaina remembered from their first, glorious meeting.
“It has to do with the prisoner.” Veryn looked over at Jaina’s shrunken form. “I think she has been doing more than meets the eye.”
“Do you now…” The Dark Lady’s blue arm continued stroking almost sensually up and down the bow.
“Archmages are dangerous and cunning foes. I have seen them in the field firsthand, and their magics are formidable. This one should be respected even more; she is the leader of the Kirin Tor itself. My Queen, I think she is a spy, sent here to bewitch us. And…” Veryn paused, then pressed on resolutely. “I think she has bewitched you.”
At the last, Veryn leapt forward with surprising speed for so insignificant of a figure. It happened so fast Jaina could not react until a sharp, wicked looking blade was pressed against her throat. She felt a sudden jolt of terror spread through her body.
Sylvanas had moved equally quickly, drawing her bow and stringing an arrow at Veryn. The two skeleton guards, armoured in their bleak, dinted plate, moved threateningly to the Banshee Queen, weapons ready.
“My Queen, I am sorry,” Veryn apologized. “I know it is treason to bare steel on you. But this creature…” He roughly drew Jaina’s face upwards, and the point of the dagger dug deeper into the soft skin of her throat. “This creature threatens both you and by extension the realm.”