Elves are a race of inherently proud beings.
These creatures have left their traces across many multiverses, and most live exceedingly comfortable lives.
The elves of Faerûn, in particular, boast a lineage so illustrious it borders on absurdity. They once truly unified this world—a feat Humans have never accomplished.
Yet this mighty race fractured millennia ago. Prolonged civil war sapped their strength, and Humans, with their relentless fertility, seized the opportunity to rise. Plagued by internal strife and external threats, the elves ultimately relinquished their rule.
Afterward, the sundered elf clans went their separate ways. But even divided, they remain among Faerûn's most formidable factions.
Just no longer the most formidable.
The longevity of their kind grants elves an edge over Humans in both martial arts and arcane study. Their glorious past also makes them prone to pompous displays in daily life.
Drow are elves, and the Drow priest before Anthony carried herself with arrogance fit to scrape the heavens.
But in the Underdark, this was no exception. All Drow females wore pride like a second skin—a privilege divinely ordained.
Deities exist in this world. Their divine power could effortlessly obliterate 99.99% of mortals. And the Spider Queen, patron of the Drow, favors females above all. Thus, only women may interpret her will and wield the formidable spellcasting prowess bestowed by her grace.
This monopoly on power has only deepened their fanaticism.
Extreme hardcore feminism.
Out of respect for strength, House Maever's Second Daughter had been relatively courteous to Anthony. She hadn't even used a derogatory term—a sign of genuine regard for the mage.
And her request, in her eyes, was perfectly reasonable.
Fetch a few items, bring back those skeletons, and earn House Maever's friendship. A bargain by any measure.
The problem? Anthony had zero patience to humor her nonsense.
He was here for a mission, not to simp for Drow women.
Even if time permitted, he wouldn't waste it gathering Hook Horror chew toys.
As the Drow Priestess issued her blunt command and sauntered off, her robes swaying, Anthony's lips moved soundlessly beneath his shadowed hood.
He'd solve this the old-fashioned way.
With a colorless, silent ray darting swiftly from Anthony, the Second Daughter of House Xorlarrin felt darkness swallow her vision—then she was back in her family's bedchamber.
This was her most familiar place, the one that offered her the greatest sense of security.
Only here could she sleep peacefully. Should anyone dare intrude, the magic traps—powerful enough to give even her pause—would teach those uninvited guests a brutal lesson.
But this time, she hadn't returned alone. She'd been delivered. Cradled in the arms of a towering male, the sensation faintly reminded her of childhood memories of her father.
Yet that feeling was distant. From the moment she'd gained awareness, most drow childhoods were spent under the weight of drills and scorn.
She relished this care—but pride demanded she walk on her own. Decades of hatred ingrained in her refused to let her rely on any male.
But her body betrayed her. Limp, strengthless, her breaths grew ragged. With the last of her will, she tugged back the hood of the man carrying her.
The archmage from earlier.
Her fingers traced the iron-hard muscles of his frame. A surge of irrepressible desire whispered to her, urging the right choice. As her pliant form was thrown onto the bed, she loosened her priestly robes, letting the candlelight lavish her curves.
The mage approached. She meant to snarl at him—yet what spilled from her lips was anything but:
"Anthony… my lord, I… I can't—"
The call summoned him. The terrifyingly massive mage reached her bedside, his hands shredding her priceless spider-silk gown in one violent motion. The brutality sent a thrill through her.
"Anthony my Lord...Rapture me...Quick..."
Arielle stared at her Second Sister, who'd seemingly stumbled, collapsed, and now writhed on the floor with clenched thighs and shut eyes. The younger priestess froze.
Though young, she was no stranger to what unfolded before her.
"Sister? Sister!" Arielle rushed to lift her, only to hear muffled, indecipherable—and utterly shameless—whimpers.
The little witch, having witnessed everything from behind Anthony, inched backward, putting distance between them.
She couldn't prove his involvement, but he was the prime suspect. The only suspect.
Four spellcasters were present. She hadn't done it. The two priestesses wouldn't sabotage their own. That left… her Master.
But how? The little witch frowned.
Her Master grew more enigmatic by the day…
Alarmed by the commotion, the drow guards' captain stepped forward, chin raised. "Priestess Arielle," he called. "Trouble? Do you require aid?"
"Male," Arielle snapped, "attend to your duties—and only those."
The captain halted, shrugged, and turned away.
Too far to see details, he'd only noted the Priestess' usual disdain. Unless they begged for help, he'd no interest in courting their contempt.
Seeing the priestesses encountering minor troubles, these drow warriors felt no sympathy whatsoever. Instead, they exchanged raised eyebrows and smug looks.
If they weren't still on duty, they'd probably be celebrating wildly in the nearest tavern.
Those high-and-mighty types only knew how to order them around. This was just the beginning - if all those priestesses returned to the Spider Queen's divine realm, that would be for the best.
Misfortune? Serves them right!
Arielle was relieved to see the male stop. She preserved her sister's dignity in front of everyone, but the body in her arms was getting hotter and hotter. Her sister even began to touch the Three-Headed Serpent Whip.
By the gods! Arielle's face flushed as she desperately wrestled the weapon from her sister's grasp, preventing what could have become an embarrassing scene.
Only after great effort did she succeed in disarming her sister, then turned suspicious eyes toward that slaver caravan that had appeared recently.
Even if her sister was in heat, she shouldn't have been this unrestrained. Could that mage have done something?
"Mage," Arielle glared fiercely, "I demand an explanation. What's wrong with my sister?"
Yet when she saw him step forward, she inexplicably felt a tremor in her heart.
"Don't come any closer! Stay away from me."
"Priestess, your words confuse me." Anthony's lips curled into a sly smile. "I truly don't know which of your commands to obey."
Arielle's mind was in turmoil. Her sister's scorching body squirmed against her, with those restless hands now wandering beneath her priestly robes.
Arielle's pretty face burned crimson. She couldn't withstand this savage assault.
She was but a newly advanced priestess who hadn't yet shed her apprentice title - her abilities paled in comparison to her sister's.
Looking down at her desperately clinging sister whose hands now trespassed into forbidden territory, Arielle could bear no more. Her psyche teetered on the brink of collapse.
If word spread of any behavior unbefitting their family's reputation, their merciless mother would likely imprison them in the dungeons for endless prayers - until no drow remembered the incident.
That would take at least a decade.
Panic and terror overwhelmed Arielle's mind. She looked up at the tall mage, her words finally softening:
"Mage... if you help resolve my sister's condition... I'll permit your entry into Menzoberranzan. Come here... quickly..."
Anthony advanced with a smile. Arielle gaped as the mage's deft fingers began delicately caressing her sister's most intimate areas.
The sight made her heartbeat quicken and cheeks flush.
Then came a soft, sensual sigh. Her sister drifted into slumber with a blissful smile, allowing Arielle to finally exhale in relief.
At last she could extract her sister's hands from beneath her robes.
"This priestess seems to have fainted from overwork. Perhaps we should escort her somewhere safe to rest?"
Arielle studied this enigmatic archmage. Though inclined to refuse, she feared a repeat of earlier events.
With her sister unconscious, if she too lost control inexplicably... the horror! They might never regain standing in Menzoberranzan.
After all, what harm could one slaver caravan and a few surface-dwellers possibly do in Menzoberranzan? Arielle convinced herself, supporting her sister as she whispered: "Follow me..."