Post by Zola Rhomdaen on Nov 9, 2023 14:29:08 GMT
(Continued from Sins of the Father.)
The next night.
The curtains are drawn closed in Zola’s bedroom, blocking off any view of the eternal full moon in the Witching Court skies. It may seem as if she is ashamed of what she is about to do and is cravenly hiding from the moon’s pale glare, but she’s not. She’s not had any help from above, so why should she give a damn what Eilistraee thinks?
Zola is seated at the desk, a single lit candle standing on it. Her hair is down and the mangled side of her face is uncovered, though the moonstone remains slotted in the empty eye socket. She is dressed in a translucent white robe of spider silk that feels light as a feather on her skin.
She stares down at the items laid on the desk: her father’s sword and the business card.
Tear here, the neat handwriting on the card calls out silently to her.
With her breath stuck in her throat, she picks up the card and — refusing to hesitate for a second longer — tears it in two.
And then…nothing. For a second or two, there is nothing but stillness and silence in expectation of something, anything happening. The air is tense with anticipation.
Finally, after an awkward amount of time — though not quite long enough to feel deeply uncomfortable and begin wondering if this was a silly thing to do — there is a soft knock at the door. Zola grumbles under her breath, gets up, and throws the door open.
“You arsehole.”
“Rude. You called me.” Tebrin Zoland has traded his fancy evening wear from yesterday for black leathers, but is still wearing the same smile on his face. He eyes the interior of the room from where he is standing. “I must say, it is quite interesting that you still wound up living beneath ground.”
“Well, I used to live in a cottage in the wild,” she says, stepping aside so he can enter. “But it blew up. Because of the whole…broken contract thing.”
Zola’s mage hand apparates above the nightstand to pick up a carafe and pour red wine into two goblets. Tebrin strides into the room, picks up one of the goblets, and takes a moment to look around the room again before his eyes finally settle on her. She feels his gaze lingering for long, taking in the sight of her nude body underneath the see-through robe.
“I see,” he says simply. He takes a sniff of the wine and holds the goblet up for inspection. “Shall I expect poison?”
Zola scoffs as she shuts the door. “You’re a devil. Why would I bother? I’m not an idiot.” She pauses briefly. “Well, okay, I am an idiot most of the time.”
He chuckles and sips the wine. His eyes have not left her. “I must say, I am enjoying seeing this side of you, Zola, not what I had expected at all. You’re always so…frosty when we talk. But now there’s wine, a splendid view… I presume this isn’t solely a social call, though?”
The longer he savours the sight of her body, the harder it becomes to deny the pleasurable shiver that creeps down her spine and the goosebumps on her skin. As calmly as she can, she goes to pick up the other goblet of wine and sips from it.
“Zarzuul is your master,” she says, glancing over her shoulder at him. “I need to know if you are going to stand between me and him when I go to kill him.”
“Interesting… I mean, not the going-after-Zarzuul part — I had assumed that the moment I realised who you were. But the fact you’d ask that means you must have something in mind… Well?” The smirk on his face is clear evidence that he is enjoying all of this far too much for comfort.
“Tebrin… Just answer the question.” Zola rolls her one good eye. “Yes or no,” she says in Infernal.
“No…or yes? That’s not an easy question, Zola. It really depends on what serves my needs better.”
That’s the answer she had expected. Good.
“So how does it work between you and Zarzuul?” she asks as she turns around and approaches him, head cocked to one side. “You claim you don’t even know where he lives. How do you report to him? Is he watching us right now?” Her gaze darts around the room.
“I know many things, my dear, and how I liaise with Zarzuul is between us. But would you like him to be watching right now? Eyes over you, tracing your every curve and move? Or do you have something else in mind? Something tells me this”—Tebrin makes a sweeping gesture towards Zola—“magnificent display isn’t for his benefit, is it? There is someone else with their eyes on you…right now.”
She closes the distance between them, until she can feel the hotness of his breath on her skin. “That someone else should realise that he can look as well as touch…if only he’d stop avoiding my questions.”
“Oh yes, he can.” Tebrin leans in and breathes deep, breathing Zola in — then abruptly pulls away. “He can, of course, touch a great many things, and it strikes me there is more to this than…carnal pleasures… Not that I can’t get behind that.”
Zola bites her bottom lip and takes a moment to hold his gaze. He looks at her the same way a wolf looks at a lonesome deer in the woods, and she relishes in it — the anticipation of the coming hunt, waiting for his starved lips to pounce on her neck, for him to pin her to the floor and fuck her senseless.
Not yet. Focus, Zola.
“My parents built their house upon my sacrifice. Now they want to maintain it with my corpse.” She does not detect the involuntary shudder in her voice until it’s too late and gulps down a mouthful of wine in a vain attempt to steady it. “I can’t… I won’t let that stand.”
“And as noble or valiant a cause that may be, I’m failing to see how a good fuck would aid that. It’d be fun. It would be supremely fun… But I doubt it’s enough to even make dear mother’s morning news.” He downs the wine in his goblet. “Come on, Zola. I know you can do better than this…”
“Let me finish.” She puts her own goblet away. “I am the eldest daughter of the house. My…twin sister may be the current heir but my claim is strongest, even after everything that’s happened. Should Matron Phaedra die or disappear…then the title is mine by rights. But I can’t do it alone. I don’t have a head for politics. I don’t even have the capacity for treachery.”
Zola turns away from him and walks towards the desk where her father’s sword — the Consort’s Sword — lay. “I need someone by my side,” she murmurs, placing her hands under the hilt and the flat of the naked blade.
“Aha… See, now that is interesting. Matricide, power plays, revenge killing, and — I presume — recovery of the hags falls into this scheme somewhere? Oh, and sex, of course. Very interesting… What, however, do you presume I gain out of this exactly?”
Zola lifts the sword and turns around.
“You will be my consort in name, but in truth, you will be the true power of House Rhomdaen. You will usurp Zarzuul’s influence once I’ve killed him. I will be reliant on you.”
Her heart is pounding like it wants to break out of her ribcage. She studies his face carefully, wondering if this is tempting him at all, as she trains her own face to conceal her nervousness.
“You will have me, entirely,” she whispers. “And you don’t even need to take my soul for it.”
Tebrin stares at the sword. He seems to be calculating, weighing his options, playing out a slew of scenarios in his head. After a long moment, his eyes return to Zola. “And? What’s to stop you deciding devil-slaying is too fun to stop and you come for me next?”
“I won’t because, as I said, I need you. I cannot hope to survive a day as matron mother without you.” She takes a step closer and gives him a playful smirk, fey and teasing. “But maybe it’s more fun with the risk…?”
There is a long moment of quiet as his eyes narrow slightly. Zola can practically see the many cogs turning behind them as he looks through her own. Finally, the roguish smirk on his face widens into a cunning and handsome smile, showing just the barest hint of teeth by the curling of his lips.
“I see the hags really have done well with you…Zola. Fine, shall we speak formal terms? I will create the opportunity for you to meet with your birth mother, aid you in usurping the household for yourself to become the matron, and eliminate Zarzuul — presumably to reclaim the hags as your own in the process. In exchange, I will take over Zarzuul’s power and influence and claim my own secure foothold in Aeschira through you as the matron, at which point you will be dependent on me to help maintain your new position. A relationship we will need to secure. Delicious… But I have a few more terms that will be required.
“Firstly, your family. Once in position, I will require your father’s sword, without question. The fate of the fallen before your blades in this coup will be mine alone to decide, including your dear mother, sister, and father if it comes to it.
“Secondly, I will forgo the contract of your soul…and will ensure the hags are free of whatever is currently preventing them from returning to their hill home, but not release it. They will be free to do as they wish, but they will become my collateral in the event you do decide to turn on me in the future.
“Thirdly — and most importantly if you truly do wish to see this plan through — until the final moment comes with Zarzuul, we will need to maintain the current dynamic of our relationship strictly between us. There may come a time where we will be directly antagonistic towards each other, and I warn you, I will not be holding back… But, when the time is right and only then, the true nature of our alliance will be revealed.”
Tebrin takes a moment to size Zola up, drinking in her form with his eyes before cupping her chin in his hand, holding her face close to his own. “Well?”
The paladin’s heart skips a beat. She gazes into his red eyes, her breath suspended in her throat once more. Then her hand suddenly grips the wrist holding her chin.
“Sorry, I didn’t make myself clear,” she murmurs. “I said I will be giving myself and my house to you — nothing more, nothing less, because I do not own anyone. When my hag mothers are safe and rescued, we can discuss what to do with that fucking contract, all of us. As for my mother, father, and sister — I will not follow in the folly of Lolth and be a kinslayer.”
He chuckles. “No, you do not — but Zarzuul already has them in a contract. By taking his place, it will fall to me, and I do plan to leave it in place. But, of course, we can talk later on that detail and come to…some other arrangement there. As for the Rhomdaens, you may not be willing to take their lives, but your father has already shown they will not hesitate the same way with you. But…” He shrugs. “Kill them or not, so long as they are no longer a threat, it matters not.”
“Tebrin, I will not go into this with you holding collaterals over my head. I will not be your dog. Either we enter this agreement as equal partners, or we walk away from this right now — and later, when Zarzuul falls, you fall with him.”
Zola is clutching the Consort’s Sword in her right hand in a white-knuckled reverse grip. With how close they are, she can easily disembowel him with a single stroke. However, she throws the blade down, where it pierces the carpet and plants upright on the floor with a THUD.
“We go into this with trust,” she says, letting go of his wrist. “Or you give me a collateral to hold over your head too. Your choice.”
Tebrin cocks an eyebrow and smiles again. He hasn’t been one for flair and extravagance, but he is clearly enjoying this bartering. “And what kind of collateral are you thinking of?”
“How would I know? I know hardly anything about you…” Zola pulls on the belt of her robe to loosen the garment, letting it fall open and slide off her shoulders. “Why not give trust a chance…?”
He gives her a withering look. “Trust? I’m afraid you are not appreciating the situation here. Trust is a dangerous thing for someone in my position. It’s far too easy for you to just change your mind and become a royal pain in my ass, and I don’t mean in a good way… Not only could you turn your blades on me, but you could also upset my position in Aeschira on a whim if you wish. Matrons are the head of the house and any arrangement we have would be dependent on you maintaining that image. What’s to stay those pretty lips if you decide you disagree with something I do later? Or have too much to drink one night? Politics is a weapon, Zola, often much sharper than those toothpicks you carry. I’m already trusting you to not royally fuck this up for me and leaving your soul out of the agreement. Perhaps you should have trust in me? I have, in fact, already shown much more ‘trust’ in you than I reasonably should — I had no need to bring up the contract with the hags, I could have simply assumed ownership once we removed Zarzuul and you would have had no say. My plan implicitly requires that I trust you to play your part and even invite you to be openly hostile towards me to achieve that goal — what’s to stop you getting just a little too carried away, hmm? Attempting to finish me off at the same time? Ah, and of course, I’m not interested in you being my dog. I already have a pet.”
“How could I trust someone who would be holding my mothers hostage? How do I know you’re not gonna use them to make me do something against my will?”
“Because we would have a deal, and I have already proven to uphold my end of the bargains I make. There will be no coercion from me, and they will be free to leave and return home.” Tebrin gives her a wide smile. “Trust me.”
Zola rolls her eye again. She grabs the front of his doublet and pulls him close, very close. Their foreheads touch, their heavy breaths mingle, their lips almost brushing with each other. “Any collateral you hold over me would only be to prevent me from killing you. That’s it. I am my own person. We will be equals in this arrangement. Take it or leave it.”
Tebrin grins with palpable excitement before biting Zola’s bottom lip, a little rougher than mere playfulness. She gasps softly as he draws blood.
“Deal,” he murmurs.
The gasp turns into a moan as she kisses him ravenously and her tongue slips into his mouth, entwining with his own devil tongue. The sweetness of lust and the iron tang of blood.
She pushes him onto the bed, her hands moving rapidly to take off his clothes, but she pauses for a second when her flushed face hovers over his.
“I am yours. You are mine.”
Co-written with Anthony
The next night.
The curtains are drawn closed in Zola’s bedroom, blocking off any view of the eternal full moon in the Witching Court skies. It may seem as if she is ashamed of what she is about to do and is cravenly hiding from the moon’s pale glare, but she’s not. She’s not had any help from above, so why should she give a damn what Eilistraee thinks?
Zola is seated at the desk, a single lit candle standing on it. Her hair is down and the mangled side of her face is uncovered, though the moonstone remains slotted in the empty eye socket. She is dressed in a translucent white robe of spider silk that feels light as a feather on her skin.
She stares down at the items laid on the desk: her father’s sword and the business card.
Tear here, the neat handwriting on the card calls out silently to her.
With her breath stuck in her throat, she picks up the card and — refusing to hesitate for a second longer — tears it in two.
And then…nothing. For a second or two, there is nothing but stillness and silence in expectation of something, anything happening. The air is tense with anticipation.
Finally, after an awkward amount of time — though not quite long enough to feel deeply uncomfortable and begin wondering if this was a silly thing to do — there is a soft knock at the door. Zola grumbles under her breath, gets up, and throws the door open.
“You arsehole.”
“Rude. You called me.” Tebrin Zoland has traded his fancy evening wear from yesterday for black leathers, but is still wearing the same smile on his face. He eyes the interior of the room from where he is standing. “I must say, it is quite interesting that you still wound up living beneath ground.”
“Well, I used to live in a cottage in the wild,” she says, stepping aside so he can enter. “But it blew up. Because of the whole…broken contract thing.”
Zola’s mage hand apparates above the nightstand to pick up a carafe and pour red wine into two goblets. Tebrin strides into the room, picks up one of the goblets, and takes a moment to look around the room again before his eyes finally settle on her. She feels his gaze lingering for long, taking in the sight of her nude body underneath the see-through robe.
“I see,” he says simply. He takes a sniff of the wine and holds the goblet up for inspection. “Shall I expect poison?”
Zola scoffs as she shuts the door. “You’re a devil. Why would I bother? I’m not an idiot.” She pauses briefly. “Well, okay, I am an idiot most of the time.”
He chuckles and sips the wine. His eyes have not left her. “I must say, I am enjoying seeing this side of you, Zola, not what I had expected at all. You’re always so…frosty when we talk. But now there’s wine, a splendid view… I presume this isn’t solely a social call, though?”
The longer he savours the sight of her body, the harder it becomes to deny the pleasurable shiver that creeps down her spine and the goosebumps on her skin. As calmly as she can, she goes to pick up the other goblet of wine and sips from it.
“Zarzuul is your master,” she says, glancing over her shoulder at him. “I need to know if you are going to stand between me and him when I go to kill him.”
“Interesting… I mean, not the going-after-Zarzuul part — I had assumed that the moment I realised who you were. But the fact you’d ask that means you must have something in mind… Well?” The smirk on his face is clear evidence that he is enjoying all of this far too much for comfort.
“Tebrin… Just answer the question.” Zola rolls her one good eye. “Yes or no,” she says in Infernal.
“No…or yes? That’s not an easy question, Zola. It really depends on what serves my needs better.”
That’s the answer she had expected. Good.
“So how does it work between you and Zarzuul?” she asks as she turns around and approaches him, head cocked to one side. “You claim you don’t even know where he lives. How do you report to him? Is he watching us right now?” Her gaze darts around the room.
“I know many things, my dear, and how I liaise with Zarzuul is between us. But would you like him to be watching right now? Eyes over you, tracing your every curve and move? Or do you have something else in mind? Something tells me this”—Tebrin makes a sweeping gesture towards Zola—“magnificent display isn’t for his benefit, is it? There is someone else with their eyes on you…right now.”
She closes the distance between them, until she can feel the hotness of his breath on her skin. “That someone else should realise that he can look as well as touch…if only he’d stop avoiding my questions.”
“Oh yes, he can.” Tebrin leans in and breathes deep, breathing Zola in — then abruptly pulls away. “He can, of course, touch a great many things, and it strikes me there is more to this than…carnal pleasures… Not that I can’t get behind that.”
Zola bites her bottom lip and takes a moment to hold his gaze. He looks at her the same way a wolf looks at a lonesome deer in the woods, and she relishes in it — the anticipation of the coming hunt, waiting for his starved lips to pounce on her neck, for him to pin her to the floor and fuck her senseless.
Not yet. Focus, Zola.
“My parents built their house upon my sacrifice. Now they want to maintain it with my corpse.” She does not detect the involuntary shudder in her voice until it’s too late and gulps down a mouthful of wine in a vain attempt to steady it. “I can’t… I won’t let that stand.”
“And as noble or valiant a cause that may be, I’m failing to see how a good fuck would aid that. It’d be fun. It would be supremely fun… But I doubt it’s enough to even make dear mother’s morning news.” He downs the wine in his goblet. “Come on, Zola. I know you can do better than this…”
“Let me finish.” She puts her own goblet away. “I am the eldest daughter of the house. My…twin sister may be the current heir but my claim is strongest, even after everything that’s happened. Should Matron Phaedra die or disappear…then the title is mine by rights. But I can’t do it alone. I don’t have a head for politics. I don’t even have the capacity for treachery.”
Zola turns away from him and walks towards the desk where her father’s sword — the Consort’s Sword — lay. “I need someone by my side,” she murmurs, placing her hands under the hilt and the flat of the naked blade.
“Aha… See, now that is interesting. Matricide, power plays, revenge killing, and — I presume — recovery of the hags falls into this scheme somewhere? Oh, and sex, of course. Very interesting… What, however, do you presume I gain out of this exactly?”
Zola lifts the sword and turns around.
“You will be my consort in name, but in truth, you will be the true power of House Rhomdaen. You will usurp Zarzuul’s influence once I’ve killed him. I will be reliant on you.”
Her heart is pounding like it wants to break out of her ribcage. She studies his face carefully, wondering if this is tempting him at all, as she trains her own face to conceal her nervousness.
“You will have me, entirely,” she whispers. “And you don’t even need to take my soul for it.”
Tebrin stares at the sword. He seems to be calculating, weighing his options, playing out a slew of scenarios in his head. After a long moment, his eyes return to Zola. “And? What’s to stop you deciding devil-slaying is too fun to stop and you come for me next?”
“I won’t because, as I said, I need you. I cannot hope to survive a day as matron mother without you.” She takes a step closer and gives him a playful smirk, fey and teasing. “But maybe it’s more fun with the risk…?”
There is a long moment of quiet as his eyes narrow slightly. Zola can practically see the many cogs turning behind them as he looks through her own. Finally, the roguish smirk on his face widens into a cunning and handsome smile, showing just the barest hint of teeth by the curling of his lips.
“I see the hags really have done well with you…Zola. Fine, shall we speak formal terms? I will create the opportunity for you to meet with your birth mother, aid you in usurping the household for yourself to become the matron, and eliminate Zarzuul — presumably to reclaim the hags as your own in the process. In exchange, I will take over Zarzuul’s power and influence and claim my own secure foothold in Aeschira through you as the matron, at which point you will be dependent on me to help maintain your new position. A relationship we will need to secure. Delicious… But I have a few more terms that will be required.
“Firstly, your family. Once in position, I will require your father’s sword, without question. The fate of the fallen before your blades in this coup will be mine alone to decide, including your dear mother, sister, and father if it comes to it.
“Secondly, I will forgo the contract of your soul…and will ensure the hags are free of whatever is currently preventing them from returning to their hill home, but not release it. They will be free to do as they wish, but they will become my collateral in the event you do decide to turn on me in the future.
“Thirdly — and most importantly if you truly do wish to see this plan through — until the final moment comes with Zarzuul, we will need to maintain the current dynamic of our relationship strictly between us. There may come a time where we will be directly antagonistic towards each other, and I warn you, I will not be holding back… But, when the time is right and only then, the true nature of our alliance will be revealed.”
Tebrin takes a moment to size Zola up, drinking in her form with his eyes before cupping her chin in his hand, holding her face close to his own. “Well?”
The paladin’s heart skips a beat. She gazes into his red eyes, her breath suspended in her throat once more. Then her hand suddenly grips the wrist holding her chin.
“Sorry, I didn’t make myself clear,” she murmurs. “I said I will be giving myself and my house to you — nothing more, nothing less, because I do not own anyone. When my hag mothers are safe and rescued, we can discuss what to do with that fucking contract, all of us. As for my mother, father, and sister — I will not follow in the folly of Lolth and be a kinslayer.”
He chuckles. “No, you do not — but Zarzuul already has them in a contract. By taking his place, it will fall to me, and I do plan to leave it in place. But, of course, we can talk later on that detail and come to…some other arrangement there. As for the Rhomdaens, you may not be willing to take their lives, but your father has already shown they will not hesitate the same way with you. But…” He shrugs. “Kill them or not, so long as they are no longer a threat, it matters not.”
“Tebrin, I will not go into this with you holding collaterals over my head. I will not be your dog. Either we enter this agreement as equal partners, or we walk away from this right now — and later, when Zarzuul falls, you fall with him.”
Zola is clutching the Consort’s Sword in her right hand in a white-knuckled reverse grip. With how close they are, she can easily disembowel him with a single stroke. However, she throws the blade down, where it pierces the carpet and plants upright on the floor with a THUD.
“We go into this with trust,” she says, letting go of his wrist. “Or you give me a collateral to hold over your head too. Your choice.”
Tebrin cocks an eyebrow and smiles again. He hasn’t been one for flair and extravagance, but he is clearly enjoying this bartering. “And what kind of collateral are you thinking of?”
“How would I know? I know hardly anything about you…” Zola pulls on the belt of her robe to loosen the garment, letting it fall open and slide off her shoulders. “Why not give trust a chance…?”
He gives her a withering look. “Trust? I’m afraid you are not appreciating the situation here. Trust is a dangerous thing for someone in my position. It’s far too easy for you to just change your mind and become a royal pain in my ass, and I don’t mean in a good way… Not only could you turn your blades on me, but you could also upset my position in Aeschira on a whim if you wish. Matrons are the head of the house and any arrangement we have would be dependent on you maintaining that image. What’s to stay those pretty lips if you decide you disagree with something I do later? Or have too much to drink one night? Politics is a weapon, Zola, often much sharper than those toothpicks you carry. I’m already trusting you to not royally fuck this up for me and leaving your soul out of the agreement. Perhaps you should have trust in me? I have, in fact, already shown much more ‘trust’ in you than I reasonably should — I had no need to bring up the contract with the hags, I could have simply assumed ownership once we removed Zarzuul and you would have had no say. My plan implicitly requires that I trust you to play your part and even invite you to be openly hostile towards me to achieve that goal — what’s to stop you getting just a little too carried away, hmm? Attempting to finish me off at the same time? Ah, and of course, I’m not interested in you being my dog. I already have a pet.”
“How could I trust someone who would be holding my mothers hostage? How do I know you’re not gonna use them to make me do something against my will?”
“Because we would have a deal, and I have already proven to uphold my end of the bargains I make. There will be no coercion from me, and they will be free to leave and return home.” Tebrin gives her a wide smile. “Trust me.”
Zola rolls her eye again. She grabs the front of his doublet and pulls him close, very close. Their foreheads touch, their heavy breaths mingle, their lips almost brushing with each other. “Any collateral you hold over me would only be to prevent me from killing you. That’s it. I am my own person. We will be equals in this arrangement. Take it or leave it.”
Tebrin grins with palpable excitement before biting Zola’s bottom lip, a little rougher than mere playfulness. She gasps softly as he draws blood.
“Deal,” he murmurs.
The gasp turns into a moan as she kisses him ravenously and her tongue slips into his mouth, entwining with his own devil tongue. The sweetness of lust and the iron tang of blood.
She pushes him onto the bed, her hands moving rapidly to take off his clothes, but she pauses for a second when her flushed face hovers over his.
“I am yours. You are mine.”
Co-written with Anthony