Echoes In Eternity 03 (Patreon)

V'kebbe's tail twitched beneath her, the tip brushing against the floor of the rough wooden platform, her bare back pressed against the table and her tits bouncing in the breeze as the man buried inside of her -the same traitorous cove that had given the caravan’s location away and held her at gunpoint, no less- continued roughly rutting away into her cunt. At least she was decently wet, now, fifteen minutes into his efforts, mostly from the last two loads of cum the bastard had dumped inside of her. Disgusting as it was, at least it provided enough lubrication that she wouldn’t suffer a dangerous tear.

She’d woken up not an hour ago, thanks to one of the serving girls from a transport galleon that the Reavers had captured recently dumping a glass of water on her face. Apparently, she’d helped save the midlander from piratical predations previously, and the girl recognized her for the Rogue that she was. Not that she’d had time to gather much more information than that before the cell door to what their captors called ‘The Hole’ (probably thought they were clever, sticking their sex-slaves in such a place, the stupid fucks) had swung open to admit a half-dozen pirates. She’d had even less time to dig her emergency lock-picks out of her cunt and slip the wax-wrapped strips of metal to the midlander before she and three other girls had been selected and dragged from the room. ‘The first round of entertainment for a pair of successful raids’, they’d been told, not that the reasons mattered.

She and the other three, a Highlander, a Duskwight, and a Keeper, had been forced to their knees amidst a circle of jeering and cheering men and women, each taking turns to cover one or more of them in one fluid or another, for the better part of half-a-bell. Then they’d been split up, and while her ‘fellow slaves’ found themselves at the center of a half-dozen pirates each, she’d been the special gift for the ‘guest of honor’ that had caught ‘the Captain’s new favorite toy’.

Which could only mean the fire-haired beauty V’kebbe had found, and she’d been painfully relieved to hear that the other girl hadn’t woken up, and thus hadn’t yet been raped. Hopefully, she’d have gotten out of this situation and started solving the whole damn problem before that could happen. To do that, though, she had to get this stupid, small-dicked, short-fused fucker on top of her to kiss her.

She'd spent the last fifteen minutes trying to get him to do just that, rubbing against him, moaning, trying to make it seem like she was enjoying it and playing into every stereotype that there was about Seeker miqo’te, but the bastard seemed more interested in watching his cock disappear inside her, or her bouncing tits, than getting his face anywhere near hers. And that wouldn't do, wouldn’t do at all.

"Gods, you're so big, ahn!" she purred, arching her back against the hands pinning her wrists to the table and forcing a husky moan past her lips, hoping any desperation leaking into her words came across as ‘whorish’ or ‘frightened slave’ rather than ‘plotting Rogue’. "Kiss me, please... I want to taste you..."

The cove grunted, his rhythm faltering slightly as he considered her request. His eyes narrowed suspiciously —pirates weren't known for their trust, and she hadn’t exactly been welcoming of his company back on the road— but his ego won out. Well, his ego and his biases, which is exactly what she had been counting on.

"Knew ye'd come ‘round, ya little tart." he sneered, leaning down to claim her lips in a brutal, possessive, domineering kiss, releasing her hands in the process. She forced herself to respond with eagerness, but as his tongue sought to tangle with hers, she avoided it instead. she used it to press hard against one of her molars…which popped free. A targeted pulse of aether later and the false tooth was starting to dissolve. Another deft swipe of her tongue and a bit of force had it moving from her mouth into his, just as it broke apart and released the fluid inside.

The poison took effect within seconds. His eyes widened in shock and confusion as paralysis crept through his limbs, starting with his tongue and throat. He tried to pull away, to cry out, but V'kebbe's arms locked around his neck, holding him close as the toxin did its work.

"Shhh, quiet now." she whispered against his ear as his body went rigid, his muscles locking up and shutting down. "That's Dravanian Mistletoe extract you’re tasting, you treacherous bastard. Paralytic, but not immediately lethal. Unfortunately for you, since that means you get to die slowly once your lungs stop workin’, lest I feel merciful and cut your throat."

His eyes bulged with terror and rage as he tried desperately to move, to scream, to do anything, but his body had become a prison. She waited a few heartbeats longer, listening to his labored, increasingly shallow breathing, before shoving him off with a grunt of effort. He tumbled to the floor with a wet thud, eyes wide and staring but unable to move or speak.

V'kebbe rolled off the table, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and grimacing at the taste of him still on her lips and the sore stickiness between her thighs -something she was normally quite fond of, in situations as unlike this one as possible-, before taking a look around. She could hear the other groups of pirates clearly, and their victims as well, not more than a few feet away, on the other side of crates and thin walls, and as distracted as those pirates were, someone would come across her, and sooner rather than later at that.

Which meant she needed a weapon, and she needed to find the Captain or the Quartermaster to take the keys to ‘The Hole’, and the rest of this complex, off of their corpses. Padding silently over to where the slowly-suffocating man’s clothes lay discarded, she fished through them carefully, grinning savagely as she extracted a long, wickedly curved dagger. It wasn’t the finest-made blade, but it was lethally sharp and tailor-made for punching through the sort of light, oft-mismatched armor that pirates were wont to wear.

"Hello, beautiful," she purred at the blade, testing its balance with a deft flick of her wrist and finding herself quite pleased. Hmm. She might have to keep it, improve it a bit of course, but keep it all the same. "You and I have work to do."

She crouched beside the dying traitor, watching coldly as his eyes began to glaze over, the paralytic slowly shutting down his respiratory system. "Your friends are next. Maybe you’ll be a better man in your next life." she whispered finally, before delivering a quick, merciful slash across his throat. Poison was one thing, but she wasn't cruel enough to watch anyone suffocate to death, even scum like him.

As much as a part of her would like nothing more than to do exactly that.

Blood started to pool beneath and around him as V’kebbe moved toward the makeshift partition separating her from the next group of ‘revelers’, and, pressing an ear against the thin wood, she started counting voices. There were…three? No, four, pirates. Four pirates and one female captive who was alternating between sobs, whimpers, squeals of pain, and forced moans, and she rather doubted that there was anyone present that was being entirely silent. Which meant she had four enemies, whose exact positions she wasn’t entirely aware of, to dispatch while protecting their victim. And without any of the pirates raising an alarm, either, which was…not going to be the easiest thing to do, without the rest of her kit. Hopefully, that midlander -or someone else- was freeing the prisoners in The Hold and working on getting everyone into the fight, because this was looking a bit problematic.

Though, hopefully, the fact that the victim on the other side of this wall was still making so much noise as she was raped, instead of silently lying there and taking it, meant she had some fire in her still. V’kebbe could use an ally, or even half of one, if she wanted to pull this insanity off successfully.

“Fuck me.” she hissed anxiously, gripping the dagger’s hilt tightly as she considered her options, none of which consisted of turning tail and leaving the girl on the other side to her fate for even a moment longer. Mind-healers there might be, and they were damn fine at their craft, but even they couldn’t entirely remove the trauma of a gang-rape entirely from the victim. And the longer this went on, the more hurt she would be. Not to mention the possibility that they might do something more permanent and fatal, even if it was highly unlikely, to the poor thing.

So, if she had to pick this fight right now -which she did- and she didn’t have allies on hand to help her win the fight, she’d need to bend the odds in her favor. Which meant she needed a distraction, something that she could use to separate them or draw their attention away from their victim long enough for her to strike. Her eyes started scanning the area, before landing on a few empty or half-empty bottles of rum and wine lying about the area. Glancing between those bottles and the bloody corpse of the man who’d been raping her, she grinned.

Perfect~!

She moved quickly, intent on putting her half-baked plan into place before the cove’s friends could notice anything out of sorts, gripping the dead man beneath his arms and hauling him up with a grunt of effort. Twelve, but the bastard was heavier dead than he’d felt alive, all that muscle gone slack and useless. She dragged him toward the cluster of bottles she’d spotted, his heels leaving smears through the blood already pooling on the rough planks, and arranged him in a crumpled heap on his back amidst the glass, hands clawing at his throat.

A bit of staging was an art, really, she’d found that out relatively early into her membership amongst the Rogues. But it was an art that she had no small amount of talent with, especially not when she needed the distraction to only last for a few moments at most. Snatching up a half-full bottle of cheap rum, the fumes stinging her nose, she splashed a generous portion across the floorboards near his feet. More than enough to make the already-damp and slippery wood akin to ice for all the traction someone would have with it, and more than enough to support the story she was about to weave.

She tucked the empty bottle into the dead man’s lax grip, curling his stiffening fingers around the neck of it, then upended another bottle to slosh a wide puddle beneath his head and shoulders. There. A man who’d gotten himself piss-drunk fucking his prize, slipped in his own spilled drink, and died messily as a result. The slit throat was a problem —no hiding that— but with the way she’d arranged his hands clawing upward and the blood already spreading, a careless glance might read it as a man clutching at a wound he’d given himself in a fall against the broken glass. It wouldn’t survive scrutiny for very long, no pirate would mistake a dagger-cut for something from falling into broken glass, but it would buy her enough time to gain an advantage.

Satisfied with her grisly little tableau, she pressed herself back against the partition, ear to the wood once more. The girl on the other side gave another broken sob, a wet sound that made V’kebbe’s jaw clench and her grip tighten on the borrowed dagger until her knuckles ached. Still going at her, then. Still hurting her.

Soon, lass, I’m almost there. Hold on just a little while longer.

She drew a slow, steadying breath through her nose, ignoring the reek of rum and blood and spent seed clinging to her own skin, and reached for one of the unbroken bottles still standing near the dead man’s feet. Taking a deep breath, she violently shoved over the nearest table, shattered the bottle all over the bastard’s chest, and screamed.

“Help! Oh gods, the blood! Someone help!” she shrieked, pitching her voice high and ragged and laced liberally with the sounds of panic, letting crack and wobble like a frightened girl who’d just watched a man die messily.

Cursing and the sounds of confusion came from the other side of the thin wall, bare feet slapping on damp wood, and the door slammed open to reveal a brute of a Hellsguard. A very naked brute, whose manhood she might have been impressed and intrigued by if it weren’t attached to a flesh-trading piece of shit.

His eyes raked across the scene —the spilled rum, the shattered glass, the corpse with its throat opened and hands clutching upward— and for the space of a heartbeat his face twisted into something between confusion and irritation. Not horror, not grief. Just the petty annoyance of a man whose fun had been interrupted by the stupidity of someone he didn’t much care for the life of, one way or another.

“The fuck happened here?” he growled, stepping into the room, his eyes flicking to V’kebbe where she cowered against the partition, naked and trembling and looking for all the world like a terrified slave who’d just watched her rapist die. “Talk, girl, or I’ll fill your cunt with one of these bloody bottles!”

“‘e was taking a break from using me, ‘e was, giving me a moment to catch my breath like. Decided ‘e wanted to drink some wine, went for the bottle, but then ‘e slipped! Went headfirst into the table, then fell onto the bottles! It broke, all over ‘is neck, and the next thing I knew ‘e was like that!” she ‘babbled’ in response, deliberately thickening her accent, trying to sound as much like a dumb, farm-bound cunt as she could possibly manage. Anything to make her seem less significant and threatening to her enemies, and it was enemies, as a second man -a hyur- also stepped out of the room.

The hyur, a wiry midlander with a scar splitting one eyebrow, peered over the Hellsguard’s broad shoulder, his cock still half-hard and bobbing obscenely as he moved. He, too, looked more disgusted than disturbed, his lip curling as he took in the spreading pool of blood.

“Daft cunt.” he muttered, padding closer to the body, his bare feet squelching through the rum-and-blood slurry. “Always knew Theron couldn’t hold ‘is drink. Tides take ‘im, the cap’n’s gonna be in a right mood, losin’ a hand because he can’t keep ‘is damn feet under ‘im!”

“Never mind th’ fact that ‘e was th’ one who caught us the cap’n’s new toy.” the Hellsguard agreed, kneeling down next to the body and prodding at it with something approaching contempt. “Of all th’ luck, landin’ throat first on a pile of bloody bottles…”

The hyur snorted, nudging the corpse’s foot with his own. “Aye, well. Less competition for the rest of us, eh? An’ the cap’n won’t be sharin’ that pretty redhead anyway, not noway or nohow.” He straightened, scratching idly at his belly. “Though I’ll wager ‘e—”

V’kebbe moved.

The crossed the distance, small as it was, separating her from her targets in two bounding strides, the ‘borrowed’ dagger leading the way to sever the artery on the right side of his throat in a single smooth cut, silencing whatever crude and cruel prediction he’d been about to voice. Blood sprayed again, turning his words into a gurgling wheeze as he started to both drown in his own blood and die of blood loss, but even as her body was sprayed with an altogether different sort of life fluid than her previous victim had stained her with, she was pivoting to the real threat.

The Hellsguard.

Twelve’s Grace on her, but he hadn’t seemed to hear what had just happened to his compatriot, and only had just a moment to glance up in confusion at the sounds of the hyur’s death and her own approach before her dagger was buried up to the hilt in his throat. The blade punched through flesh and cartilage with a wet crunch, putting to a premature end any attempt that he might have made to warn his surviving friends.

He gurgled, once, his eyes rolling as he massive hands came up to claw at the bitter steel lodged in his throat, but V’kebbe was yanking it free and stepping away before he could grab it, or her. As he toppled forward to join the two corpses she’d already decorated the floor with, she allowed herself exactly one heartbeat of grim satisfaction before turning her attention back to the doorway.

Two down, two to go, and neither of the survivors apparently aware that anything was amiss. At least, judging by the sound of the continued fucking and crying coming from the other side of the wall. Gods, she knew these people were scum, but they couldn’t even stop raping a girl long enough to see what had killed a comrade of theirs, or why two more comrades had suddenly gone completely silent? She didn’t care how drunk or how horny she was, she’d never be so apathetic. Then again, she wouldn’t be caught dead acting like one of these scum in any respect, so that probably tracked, didn’t it?

Good riddance to bad rubbish, so far as she was concerned, and she’d be happy to add every blighted slaver in this shithole to the pile. And, with any luck, she’d get her hands on the Captain’s papers before he could burn them, find out what allies and buyers he had for his wretched trade. Deliver a bit of retribution onto their heads as well. Personally, if she could manage it, though she’d settle for watching them be executed all official-like if it meant they weren’t breathing the same air as better sorts of folk for a moment longer than required.

For now, though, she needed to help the person on the other side of this wall, and that meant further creativity. Hiding her knife behind her back, a timid demeanor, and an explanation that the two outside were dealing with the man who’d been using her should leave her plenty of time to get close and cut a throat or two…

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Y’shtola Rhul, Archon of Sharleyan and member of the Circle of Knowing of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn, had been in quite a few bad situations in her life. Growing up amongst her siblings and the rest of the Jaguar Tribe hadn’t been terrible, living in Dravania as they had, but it hadn’t been easy either. Miqo’te were prime targets for slavers and rapists, after all, many of whom had little qualms for taking the young and ‘raising them right’, and Seekers were especially popular.

Not to mention easier to get your hands on than their far more reclusive and militant Keeper cousins. But her father, tribe-brothers, and fellow Sharleyan were more than capable of driving them off before she or any of her sisters got more than a good scare.

Living in Old Sharleyan, the only real danger -thought it was no less potent, perhaps even more so- was from hormones. Either her own, or those of the men and women around her. And not just in pursuit of sex, either, though there had been plenty of that. No, as it turned out, when you took volatile, young, brash, hormonally-charged young adults and either taught them powerful magics or allowed them to delve into such research of their own volition, things could get distinctly explosive.

She’d stayed out of that sort of nonsense as much as possible, thank you ever so kindly, and not regretted it overmuch. A tumble here or there, perhaps, if she was in the mood, but by and large if she wanted to see pleasure she had one of her sisters or her own hands to find it with, and keeping to herself had been a fine way of staying out of the oft-violent drama between her fellow students.

Though there had been times where she had been at the center of that drama, thanks to various would-be suitors competing for her attention. As if she was so easily swept off of her feet by idiots that saw her as a prize to be won, or a pure, untainted idol to admire. Neither view was an attractive one, no matter how pleasant the face espousing it might have been.

Of course, the warring with Garlemald and the beast men had certainly put her in a few tight spots as well, but she had never been alone, and ever been more than capable of looking after herself. Frequently to the detriment or death of those that were foolish enough to force her hand.

But now, she’d suffered a fate she really rather would have avoided. Captured by pirates, locked in a set of stocks, bereft of her casting tools and resources, not to mention raped by a genuinely wretched example of a man, all because her charges had -bravely, nobly, and foolishly- offered themselves up as hostages to secure the survival and safe passage of what was left of their ship’s crew and passenger complement, and what could she do in response but offer herself as a distraction to keep them safe until she could come up with a plan for escape?

A plan that she had successfully come up with, for that matter, around the third time that ‘Captain Madison’ had started flogging her. As if a little bit of pain would break her. She’d suffered worse, and frankly enjoyed a bit of pain, so long as it was coming from someone that she trusted or, better still, cared for. No, he hadn’t stopped her plotting at all, and she’d had every intention of waiting until he had shoved his foul little cock into her mouth again before biting it off, and when he went to his knees, she would have unleashed the most powerful aero spell that she could without a foci and torn the flesh from his bones…and hopefully done enough damage to the stocks to get out of them. They were sturdy, but they were made for holding meek, brow-and-body-beaten civilians, not Archons full of wroth.

Then…well, then she would have woken up the beautiful -breathtaking, quite literally, her breath having caught the moment she saw the girl, and not only because there was now another ‘special victim’ in Madison’s grasp- vieran stranger and hoped that her martial ability matched her muscular, scar-littered appearance. Especially since she had, by all appearances, survived a would that should have ended her utterly, judging by the scar in the center of her chest between her breasts.

Something about the girl -who very well could be older than Shtola herself was, viera being what they were- had seemed almost magnetic, constantly drawing the eye in a way that was less sensual and more fascination. Though, in spite of that fact and the circumstances that they were currently in, she hadn’t been able to entirely keep herself from noticing those large, full breasts and well-trimmed sex, nor from imagining what she would look like in the fine garb of a Thavnairian dancer or a low-cut ball gown.

It had been a bit distracting, really. Not enough to stop her from her planning, of course, but a distraction all the same, and she’d been quite curious about the enigma that the other girl represented.

But then the girl had acted, before Madison could finish with his current victim and come back to Y’shtola, waking and raging at what the bastard was doing with eyes that seemed a touch to bright and shone a bit too much for a normal girl, even a vieran one, and a voice that seemed to echo and shiver through the air itself. She had fought her chains til blood flowed down her arms, and when Madison had finally reached out to touch her, sank canines longer than any non-Miqo’te should possess into his flesh, tearing it from his bones and leaving his hand mangled and bloody.

That had been as impressive as it was terrifying, and Shtola had been so very sure that she was going to watch this fierce, brave, beautiful young woman be brutally raped to death before her very eyes, but then the girl had strained against her chains…and broken them. She’d moved then, with fluid and outright predatory grace, tearing the lock and its setting entirely out of the stocks that had imprisoned Y’shtola to set her free.

The display that had followed had shown Shtola exactly why this particular girl was so very different, laying Madison low with a single, powerful blow to the face before consuming his aether, her bloodstained lips parted and hovering over his in a gesture that would be almost intimate if it weren’t for the brilliant threads of pure life-force that she was devouring. It had been…genuinely shocking, and bewildering. Somehow -how, why, she didn’t know- this woman was in possession of traits and talents only the monsters that came from The Void should be capable of possessing, in spite of looking like no voidsent that she had ever seen or heard of. Of course, when those brilliant, cut-jade green eyes had turned to the twins, she had feared what would happen next. Made herself a shield for her once-teacher’s beloved grandchildren…only for the woman to help her again, breathing life into her wounds and healing them with ease.

And now?

Now she was watching this beautiful, deadly, confusing, fascinating enigma, this ‘Joan’ -which was obviously an alias of some sort, given the hesitant way that she’d said the name, but an alias that was based one someone or something for whom she held great affection and bittersweet memories- take apart yet another trio of pirates like they were novice farmhands.

The way she fought was frankly terrifying, not least because she was fast, probably as fast or faster than Thancred, by far the fastest and most deadly melee fighter that Y’shtola had ever seen. Fast enough that she seemed almost able to predict her enemies’ moves before they made them, and she was wielding a sword-and-dagger combination in a style that was strange to watch, but clearly quite effective.

Joan finished off the last of her current opponents with a swift series of weaving dodges that flowed seamlessly into a trip, following the woman down to the ground as she fell and impaling her through the heart before she had a chance to even register that she’d fallen. The latest in an increasingly long list of people that the redhead had cut down in her effort to free every victim that the Serpent Reavers held.

She cut quite the figure now as well, her body somewhat covered as it now was not by clothes, but by bandoleers of weapons, pistols in particular. She hadn’t actually used any of those pistols yet, well aware that any semblance of secrecy would be well and truly lost the minute the first gunshot echoed through the tunnels, but Y’shtola rather found herself doubting that Joan’s marksmanship would be found lacking once the shooting did start.

Reaching another junction and starting to turn, Joan jerked to a halt and threw up one bloody fist, those tall ears swiveling slightly, nose twitching slightly. Their small group, now including a handful of people rescued from the task of ‘entertaining’ pirates, froze instantly, raising their weapons or hiding behind those that had them.

“What is it, Joan?” Alisaie hissed, eyes wide and the tip of her rapier weaving slightly in the air as she looked around for whatever it was that their ad hoc leader seemed to have caught notice of.

“I can hear people in that direction, and I can smell the woman that the Captain was…hurting, when I first woke up.” came the explanation, and there was a moment of murmuring before a voice spoke up from somewhere amidst their rescuees.

“That must be what these bastards call The Hole, then. Where they keep their slaves when they’re not using us…them.” the voice explained, correcting itself firmly as its owner remembered that she was now free of that slavery. “It won’t have more than one or two guards, but it’s a dead end. If we’re caught in there, we’ll be stuck.”

Y’sthola watched as Joan absorbed this, frowning as she looked between that passageway and the other, the one that would lead deeper into the Grotto. Watched as she clearly agonized over whether to try and free the other prisoners now, and risk being discovered and trapped like rats in a trap, or push on with their increasing number of liberated slaves and risk both casualties and the prisoners being taken hostage. She was also clearly reluctant to give orders one way or another in a situation that wasn’t an outright battle. That, however, Y’shtola could at least help with.

“Alisaie, Alphine, the two of you will go to this ‘Hole’ with everyone we’ve rescued. The two of you are to help them hold it against all comers. Joan and I will press on and deal with any pirates we find.” she said aloud, firmly taking the pressure of making the decision off of Joan’s shoulders, lips quirking slightly at the way the viera’s shoulders slumped ever-so-slightly in relief. When two mouths opened to argue -more than two, but her charges were the ones that she found most important at the moment- she added a bit of aetheric pressure to her glare. “That wasn’t a request, nor a suggestion. It was a decision and an instruction. You’ll likely find the key just outside, or perhaps on one of the guards. I would suggest getting inside and relocking the gate, if at all possible. In the best case scenario, no one will come looking, but if they should, they will likely find breaking in to be difficult, even without you defending yourselves. Now go.”

The twins hesitated, squirming slightly beneath the weight of that glare before folding, Alphine nodding in submission as she turned to the crowd of rescued prisoners and starting to murmur instructions and Alisaie glowering in the direction that she wouldn’t be going with a clenched jaw, even as her rapier-point dipped floorward. She shot a glance at Joan, a look equal parts awe, frustration, and jealousy, before darting down the tunnel with her sister and two of the more combat-capable rescuees at her heels, the rest following at a safer distance.

With them safely away, Shtola turned her attention back to her now-sole companion, who was looking distinctly relieved that the civilians were out of the line of fire. Small wonder, she was clearly a good person, and she was clearly well-trained. As such, she was well aware that untrained civilians -no matter how righteous their cause, no matter how enthusiastic their efforts- were far more likely to get themselves and their allies killed than actually accomplish anything of measure.

“You should go with them.” the other girl said, before she could say a word, and Y’shtola scoffed lightly.

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t take your advice, nor your instruction, on that matter. I may not be so capable with a blade as you are, but I am still an Archon of Sharleyan. I can take care of myself, and keep you and anyone else we find alive at the same time.” She shook her head in amusement and dismissal of the very idea.

“I…suppose that I will have to take your word for it.” Joan said slowly, and for a moment Y’shtola wondered if the girl had no idea what an Archon of Sharleyan actually was, before dismissing it. Sharleyan was as famous and well-known as it was isolationist, and while Archons rarely stayed out of the Old Country for long, they certainly weren’t unknown to the rest of the world, either. Even Garlemald allowed most Archons to travel their lands unmolested, respecting the knowledge they possessed and the neutrality of their nation.

For the moment, at least.

Instead, she opted for gesturing with her foci -better than the one she’d lost, amusingly, though it wasn’t as if she’d brought her finest equipment to pick up the twins. A mistake, in retrospect, but then again she could have hardly predicted the Serpent Reavers still existed, and even less so that they would dare attack a Sharleyan-flagged vessel, down the tunnel that would lead them deeper inside.

“Come on then, off we go. Best to handle things quickly, before any evidence that could let us destroy these scum to the last can be destroyed, or any further harm can come to those they’ve stolen away. Besides, I’ve grown quite tired of having that bastard’s seed on my skin, and I’d rather like to have a bath.” she encouraged, and Joan eyed her for a moment with what looked like bewilderment before obeying, leaving Y’shtola to follow those magnificent, swaying hips -and all that was attached to them- deeper into the tunnels.