n the early morning hours, Syla crept from her bed. Among her elf-kin around her not one stirred, and though she knew that her footfalls would wake none, still softly did she tread. The tribe that she was staying with currently was a migratory one and, though she was not one of them, she knew that they would judge her for her actions that morn should they discover her motives.
You hungry for more? I ask as I pump The salty, thick serum You lust for throughout your quivering, firm body Slick from night duties Performed with a care Most would deem rare.
I kneel before you, thusly knighted, Betwixt slick, smooth thighs I dine delighted,
An ominous roll of thunder heralded the dawn for Lystra and her companions. They had awakened early, Kivan rousing them from their slumber, a meager fast of dried fruits and meats their only sustenance before they took once more to the road.
uiding Shadowflight off the streets of Baldur’s Gate, Lystra urged her mare down a side alley beside the Elfsong Tavern. Her course led her to a small yard at the Inn’s back where a four-horse stable stood against the far wall. It was rare that all of the stalls were taken in the Elfsong’s stable as most who patronized the establishment were denizens of the city and so had no need to stable their mounts there. Currently, she saw, only one other horse resided there and her eyes narrowed at the sight of it, not due to any action by the horse itself but more so because she could guess whose horse it was. If what Jaryn had told her on the road was true, she knew that the black beast in the stable could be none other than the horse of the Harper Master Jherek for the Elfsong was a favored haunt of his while he was in the city.
Moonlight shone eerily across the surface of untouched snow, broken every now and then by the deep pool of shadow gathered beneath a towering fir. The night air was heavy, silent, and still with not a breath of air to disturb it. All the world seemed as a predatory beast preparing to spring upon unsuspecting … Continue reading The Hunting Lodge pt.1
I love you so dearly Ripe, sweet fruit of the vine The taste of your nectar The soft curve of your thigh Let me suckle at your nature Let me be of your kind I love you so dearly The moon of my sky Transform me forever Ripe sweet fruit of the vine
It was nearing midnight, and the small roadside bar in west Texas was preparing to wrap up another slow night. The day was October the 30th, and as the minutes ticked closer to the witching hour, the world drew closer to all hallows eve. A soft, cool wind blew in from the west, disturbing the … Continue reading The Witch of West Texas