ISCHIA
Darkness came early to the city of Mizaren. Heavy clouds bearing the first of the winter’s thunderstorms scraped their way northward across the sky, leaving waterlogged fields and flooding streams in their wake. Ischia shivered, pulling the leather hooded cloak tighter about her. The weight of the sodden fur was almost too much to bear, and she was glad when she saw the sentinel’s lantern glimmer between the boards of the window shutters. She dismounted her tired horse and pulled the summons-rope on the gatehouse.
The shutter swung open lazily, and a bleary-eyed old guard stuck his balding head out the window. “Aye, so who are ye, and what’s yer purpose waking me at this hour?”
The elf-woman smiled slightly. Only in such a sturdy-walled city as this could a night guardsman afford to nap on duty. These were not quiet times in the land of Anithne. “I am Ischia etNatuia, and I’d like to rejoin my troupe. We were separated several miles back when my horse went lame, and I am certain they are missing their dancer.”
The old man narrowed his eyes, sizing her up. “Aye, all right then. There’s a right ruckus goin’ on at the Oaken Barrel just ‘round the bend up ahead. Can’t get any shut eye with all the bangin’ drums and the like. I’m sure ye’ll find yer friends there. Ain’t seen but one group o’ you in a moon or more.”
Ischia breathed a sigh of relief, nodded, and led her horse through the now-open night gate. She made her way down the cobbled main street, and was met at the covered portico to the Oaken Barrel by the valet – a mute man who gestured to a sign displaying the prices for his services. She paid him the two silver to take her mare to stable and have her cleaned, fed, and boarded for the night. With her backpack in hand, she breathed deeply and entered.
He was beautiful. His hair, auburn and soaked with sweat, flung glistening droplets through the firelight as he beat out the drum’s sensual rhythm with his entire body. Ischia found herself immediately breathing in time, faster and faster, with the vibrations of the music. Never taking her eyes off him, she half-stumbled to an available curtained booth with a clear view of the raised stage. How lucky she was, to have arrived on the one night a true bard troupe had come to town. It was a long shot, and she could easily have spent the night in the rain. None of this was on her mind, as the other musicians on the platform carried on their melody. A wooden flute or two, a lute, several other drummers – all Men, save for the jade-skinned wood Elf.
The song ended with a flourish, and he rose, ran slender fingers through his long hair, and picked up a fiddle. A low tune began, accompanied ever so softly by his drummers and a vocalist murmuring what seemed more like erotic incantations than lyrics in a language Ischia did not recognise. As he played, his feet began to move along with his graceful body, and Ischia found herself witness to a dance that could only be magic. Entranced as she was, she found herself aching with desire for this elf whom she had never before laid eyes upon.
His eyes were auburn as his hair above high cheekbones. His mouth was small, thin-lipped and delicate. His shirt, damp with sweat, clung to the lean muscle of his arms. His bare abdomen undulated with each drawn note. His song became faster, more intricate, and his dance followed. Ischia’s body cried out with longing. She must have him.
A serving wench came by, irritated at the prospect of serving a woman until Ischia ordered a full bottle of Dwarven “Szarrt”, a strong and not inexpensive ale. Ischia drained her first mug almost immediately, and refilled it. The ale burned in her throat, but the fire in her belly only grew.
Then, he saw her. Those red eyes met hers, and she willed every half-conceived daydream of her life into them. Know, she thought, know how badly I need you! Her bed had been cold too long – far too long – and she would change that this night if she had to take this elf at knifepoint. Her tongue parted her lips, moistening them. She bit her lip to keep from shouting, and instead gestured her best “come hither” with her head and a single raised eyebrow. A half-smile glinted on his face, only for a moment, to show he understood.
His song came to a close, and a trio of string players took their turn. He carefully set aside his fiddle, patted a young drummer on the shoulder, and stepped off the stage, crossing to Ischia. Her heart raced as he entered her booth, threw the curtain closed, and wrapped her in a sensuous embrace. She received his lips on hers, returning his kiss with force and longing, feeding off his energy. He broke away and spun her around, wrapping one arm around her waist, and forced his other hand into her breeches. She cried out when she felt his fingers enter her, and almost involuntarily reached back and gripped his hair. He worked his fingers in her, teasing her pleasure spot with the heel of his hand, and nuzzled her neck. His free hand unfastened the laces of her tunic, found her breasts. He showed her no mercy – his touch was rough, beast-like. Ischia felt ready to explode with excitement, feeling him grow behind her. Her breathing intensified, she broke into a sweat. Her legs grew weak, and as she neared the culmination of her pleasure, he pulled his hands away.
She turned to face him, and threw herself onto the oak table. He made quick work of her wool breeches, and freed his member, long and erect. Ischia wrapped her legs around him as he took her standing. The feel of him inside her as he thrust, hard, fast, in time with the beating drums, drove her wild.
She reached up to hold him – to draw him upon her. His eyes burned into her with an almost angered passion, and he pinned her wrists against the table with one hand. Not used to submissiveness, Ischia arched her back, wanting to gain control over this man, to reach the heights of passion her own way.
The elf was having none of it. He pulled out and turned her over, gripping her ankles and forcing her to brace against the sides of the table. He thrust into her from behind – harder and faster than ever. Her body, the table, the entire world shook with his power. Thunder crashed, drowning the din of the tavern and heralding Ischia’s dynamic orgasm. She shuddered entirely, her body clenching around the elf’s potent organ. He dropped her legs and forced her hips closer to him, burying himself in her to the hilt for a few slower, longer thrusts. Then, his final push and he spilled his seed within her.
He reached over her spent, panting body to the half-empty bottle of Szarrt, lying on its side on the table. He uncorked and drained it, withdrew his softening member from her, and was gone.
The Carnal Quill 