Flickering shadows conceal a cloaked figure around the corner from a 'well used' tavern. Thirsty eyes watching as patrons shamble drunkenly in ones and threes. Harlots garlanded like the many flocks of exotic birds in reds, blues, and greens. Hired muscle escorting bards in loose tunics and short skirts. Genteel in all of their finery betting amongst themselves on who would be partnered for bedding by the fourth or seventh rounds of drinks for the evening. At last, as the dawn deepens before breaking into the first strands of twilight, one of the harlots notices a patron as yet untended as he emerges from the tavern. She follows him into the deep shadow of the alley, smiling to herself.
The darkness conceals everything at this hour, it always has. His pulse quickens. Maybe today is the day. The girls eyes are hungry as she watches him guiding her further away from the tavern. Her vision drinking only the richness of his cloak, the elegance of his step. He leads her down a final turn before she finds herself inexorably drawn to the length of his staff. The round red tip and coppery-red veins winding along a smooth golden shaft entrance her as he runs its length along the palm of his hand, binding her with unseen sorcery as he has countless others before. He feels himself quivering inside of its length, pulsing and already almost ready to explode.
He brings the red tip of his staff to her lips and the force of it drops her to her knees, lower lip split and bleeding; his own mouth curling into a smile as he remembers all of the lovely faces he's already ruined with his rod. She whimpers and covers her face begging, "Please, please d-"
Her jaw clicks shut and teeth find tongue as he brings her up senseless to her feet with a blow to the chin, his magic holding her motionless. He twists at the unseen flow and the seamless threads of energy binding her in place grows barbs that slowly bite into her. Her eyes grow wide as her corset and skirt fall to the ground in pieces and the magic begins slowly drawing thin lines crying red tears across her bare flesh while her consort sighs, "I suppose none is ever quite as good as the first."
The challenge. The trap springing shut. It's addicting.
Indeed, purrs the dragon.
As the whore smiles at him he feels something warm on his shirt. He looks down and frowns in puzzlement. Why is there a silver rib sticking out of my chest? The silver blade is gone as quickly as it appeared and the lady killer
drops to his knees, beautiful even now in all of his terrible glory. There's a first time for everything, replies the dragon as a new girl runs a finger along his jawline.
Licking the blade clean it flows, a molten mirror, down under her finger nails. Her lips are left a pair of rubies and her eyes sparkle, two snowflakes tinted blue. She kisses his cheek leaving a pair of scarlet lips to mark him as one of her dead and turns, hair as deep and rich as her kiss tumbling gently around her shoulders and down her back.
The dark complexioned whore is standing now, her golden eyes feral and mouth hungry. Claws reach toward- A sharp slap rebukes she-wolf. A pair of stone-gray eyes glare in wordless disapproval. Whimpering, ashamed, the she-wolf retracts her claws, before following her mistress into the gloom.
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