Legends of Belariath

Nataniel

Berni`th Or`Shanse ruled her clan with an iron fist. Cruel and devious intelligence marking her every move. Her house of the lesser known of the gloom, like the crouching spider within the shadows, merely waiting for the chance to take out its larger peers. The house retaining its status throughout years of turmoil and constant betrayal. Perhaps an insignificant seeming detail, yet every day seemed to see the rise of a new First, the fall of the mighty. Yet, through it all, House Vlos Or`Shanse retained its status, undiminished.

Her blackguard, a strangely burly Moriel by the name of Welvrin Dan`trag, was renowned within the darkness for his skills as a BladeMaster. His skills with the sword only overshadowed by his reputation as a violent monster both in bed, and out. Often times assisting his Matron in the bloody ceremonies that took place within the temple. The two together often enough that everyone assumed them to be lovers, though the Matron never officially named a consort.

Welverin often lead the Matron's strikes against the surface. Gone for weeks at a time in the long trek to the Sssiks`flamgra` lands above. Often to the point that the High elf societies that they had continuous contact with had become unusually militant. The males learning to fight almost as soon as they were able to hold a sword. The young females cloistered, rarely walking the forest on their own. The Raids becoming harder, and harder, to pull off. Enough so that Welverin was forced to begin to scout farther and farther in search of fresh meat. Meat that often came in the form of young nubile elf flesh. High elf. Sylvan elf. Males and females that would sate the lusts for sex and blood within the vicious, if small, House.

One such raid began to wear on to a month before the tiny village was located. Ripe pickings. The raiding party was able to overcome the sleeping sylvans with the coming of darkness.. Most dying out of hand, simply because they were too old, or too weak to make the trek back to the waiting Gloom. It was almost too good to be true, yet with the coming of the dawn the chained chattel were lead along the shadowy forest back towards the nearest sinkhole to the true world beneath..

The arduous journey was taxing. Some of the slaves dying from strange bites, odd sicknesses, or the overt cruelty of their captors. Those few could, perhaps, be counted the lucky ones. For no sooner had they arrived back within the gloom-ridden corridors of the Matron's lair, than the newly enslaved were put through exhaustive inspections.. Some, deemed unfit, sent to the garrison. To be used as toys, pleasure slaves, or perhaps merely killed for sport. Another group, sent to the kitchens, were trained to be servants. To cook. To clean. Perhaps this might seem idyllic, given the situation, yet rarely were the lesser servants able to make it to their straw mats at the end of the night without being covered with bruises, and likely bleeding from slating the lusts of the staff, or anyone else who came by.

Once those two groups had been culled from the captives, there were precious few left. A mere handful of quivering flesh to choose from. Yet that supple skin was perfection. Smooth, unmarked, youthful. The very cream of the crop. Three maidens, and one young male who had likely just celebrated his majority. The only ones out of the herd of new slaves to be considered fit for use by those with more sophisticated tastes. Their clothes stripped from them as surely as their rights. Delicate collars made of gold filigree. Ornamental, the beauty of the item clashing with the reality. The sudden and harsh training taking over their lives. Destroying all sense of self until the once well formed slaves had become sluts. Forced to perform. The bend, arch, display on command.

Their once-lush forms marred by line brutal lines of welts. Scars forming upon tender breasts, opened thighs. All for the entertainment of the chill Matron as she would eat her dinner. Conversing casually with those of stature and power while her slaves writhed and cried out from their bindings. However, one of the new slaves had drawn the interest of the cruel Welvrin. His eyes wandering her form possessively every time the two were in the same room. That darkly hungry look that bordered upon obsession.

The girl had been a simple maiden of the village. Known for her gaiety, her quick smile, and her pleasant conversation. Yet the creature he lusted after was a different breed. That simple life had fallen from her, stripping away the carefree attitudes of her old life, leaving only that spark of inner strength encased within the delicate frame. Perhaps that was what drew him to the slender girl who had once been known as Ireth Súrion, but had since been renamed Eerie, and often called it in the same tone one might have used for a favored pet.

Owned by the Matron herself, trained specifically for her deviant pleasures, did lead to a certain amount of favoritism. The young slaves allowed to spend an hour in relaxation, to run free in the small garden outside of the Matron's window. If garden you could call such a place of barren grays and blacks. Yet it was a place free of constant rules, where they could lazily curl up to read, or perhaps get the exercise they needed like good pets..

It was looking down upon such a scene that Welvrin would turn towards his Matron. The cold crimson eyes crawling over the Moriel, looking directly at her as none other dared. The Matron would lean back in her chair, a slow smile touching those chill features. She was not a beautiful woman, though nor was she ugly. She had aged, ripened, the way that those of elfin blood do. Yet still retaining that youthful splendor. The only true signs that age was upon her were the tiny lines around her eyes, the almost painful gauntness of her figure. 'I have noticed that your attention has begun to wander Welvrin..' A slight hint of disapproval lacing those dulcet tones, her brow rising slightly.

'I want her.' It was a bald faced statement. The moriel not known for his subtlety. 'There is something within her that I wish to grind to ashes..' That hunger apparent in his words even as he would turn his gaze back towards the Matron.

'Very well, Welvrin.. You have served me faithfully for many years.. I have only one request, and then you can feel free to.. hunt.. the chyld to your contentment..' Her smile growing as she would wait for his acquiescence before continuing.

'I want Drakkyn Dan`trag to die.' That stony face seemed to show its first emotion, Welvrin drawing back slightly, his eyes widening, before he would bow his head. 'Consider it done..' Turning on his heel and moving from the room without another word. The Matron would turn her chill gaze towards the window, her eyes an oddly disconcerting color of blue, a smile touching her lips as she watched the girl in question carefully dab at the wounds on her sister-slave. A slight spidery looking man would slide out of the wall behind her, making it obvious that he had been listening to the entire thing.

'This is well, Bern`ith..' His voice a low, hissing rasp. His body shrouded in dark clothe, though it did nothing to hide the slender build.

'Yes, he is the only one who can get close enough to kill Drakkyn..'

'Yesss.. It isst g'd that he wasss n't killed for his arrogansse, before..' His hands lightly sliding over one another, the only visible par of his body. The Matron's lips twisting slightly at the sight of the deformed hands, little glittering scales catching her attention before her gaze would pull away from him, back towards the window.

'He is a useful hammer.. is he not?' her smile widening as she would go back to watching her toys. Almost as interesting to watch them interact without restraint, as it was to watch them beg for their pathetic lives under the whip..

***

The pink skinned little slave had preyed upon his mind for weeks.. Her every movement. The way she would dance. The way her skin reddened under the bite of the whip. But always that slight spark of defiance in her eyes.. Even as she would obey, and bend, and spread.. He had to have her.. Had to break her.. Had to watch that light die within her eyes..

The obsession consumed him until he began out of the fortress with the intention of doing something he had sworn never to do.. With the intention of killing his own twin sister.. The bulky male likely the only one who could get close to the powerful sorceress without tipping her off to his intentions.

***

Weeks passed without word from the the Blackguard. The Matron seeming on tenderhooks. Ordering her slaves to more deviant acts. Even going so far as to hold a ceremony in Kirva's honor, sacrificing the only male that had been caught to the dark Goddesses glory.. All in the hopes that the male would return triumphant.

He did.

From the darkness he would tread. His steps heavy with the grief of what he had done. Even as he silently thrilled that he had been proven the strongest of the two of them. The male twin. The one cast off into the pits.. The superior. The hulking man kneeling at the old Matron's feet, offering her the proof of his deeds. The artifacts of power that had once belonged to the head of the Dan`trag line.. As well as the Errdegahr`khaliizi that had been embedded in her forehead when she had Ascended.

Welvrin did not ask why the Matron had desired the death of his only sibling so badly. Though he had resisted her requests for years.. decades.. His gaze immediately going to the kneeling form of the golden haired sylvan. Though he did not immediately claim here, merely turning upon his heel and leaving the room after ceremony had been met.

Nor did he call her to his room that night, or the next. One would almost think that he had forgotten about his prize. His obsession. Nearly a week had passed before he would begin appearing to her. Casually. Merely in her way as she would walk through the halls. Blocking way. Forcing her to bow and beg pardon for nearly knocking into him. Until it seemed that she could barely turn around without finding him nearby.

The tall, over-sized Moriel would never say a word. His quiet gaze always seeming to freeze her form within its amber depths. To rape her without ever touching that buxom form.

Cornering her in dark rooms. Stalking her until she flinched whenever her gaze would fall upon him. Until she began glancing over her shoulder whenever she would find herself alone. The confident, defiant gaze becoming something else altogether. Like the nervous tick of a rabbit who smells the wolf..

Only after months of mental abuse, would the Moriel make his move, cornering the slave as she moved to wait on her Mistress. His fingers curling around the slender column of her throat, crushing that gold filigree into the delicate skin that it surrounded.

Hours later the broken elf was found unconscious upon the ground. Her body a mass of bruises and crimson streaks. Her hair matted to her head, the fine gold of her collar embedded in the delicate flesh of her throat.

Within weeks the Backguard had led his raiding party towards the surface once more. The healing slave able to breath for the first time in months.. Only to find herself pregnant. A sylvan slave.. What chance did her offspring have of a normal life. The moriel had barely looked twice at her since that night, and it was unlikely that the child would be considered anything other than another slave to entertain the house. Growing up to perform lewd acts for the amusement of heartless matrons..

It was with these thoughts that kept her company when she was not forced to serve. These thoughts that grew within her mind even as the babe grew within her belly. Already she could tell that it would be a male child. Her very spirit despairing where it had never been anything but strong before. Breaking to pieces where it had merely bent. It was not until she was nearing term that the Raiding party returned. A new batch of slaves, replacing those that had become used, deficient.

Of the four that had been chosen to wait upon the Matron. Only two survived. The heavily pregnant Eerie, and her sister-slave, Inra. Even before the raiding party had been properly welcomed back, Inra was sent to the barracks, no longer needed, or wanted, within the confines of the keep itself. Eerie knew that she was destined for the same fate as she saw the girls paraded in. High elves this time. Tall and coldly beautiful, though cowering and dirty from their trek into the Gloom.

Eerie would drift from the central hall, keeping her head down, knowing that they would barely miss her presence with all the activity that would consume the household for days.. Her pale fingers drawing over her distended belly, caressing the swollen flesh even as she would make her way up the stone steps. To the very top of the highest tower. From there she would fling herself to her death..

***

Eerie had not been completely right. Cruel and callous though Welvrin had been, he had noticed her disappearance. The gruff male searching among the crowded household for her, questioning the after the fiery eyed sylvan.. Always the same blank look following his queries. The towering male heading to the little 'garden' where he had once looked upon her, only to find her mangled body laying upon the stony ground. The slightness of her form surprising him almost as much as the fullness of her belly. A roar of anger nearly shaking the accompanying rooms.

Perhaps he had not loved her. But she had been the only thing he had owned. The Moriel having taken great care in the breaking of her mind, with the full intention of rebuilding it. Though such was not to be. The tiny sylvan had not survived the fall, though the dark healers were able to pull the tiny babe from her body. A useless male child.

Not a child that was claimed by anyone. The offspring of a slave. His skin far too light to ever pass as a Moriel. He was simply mixed in with the other spawn. Pureblooded children brought from the surface, mixed blooded spawn of rape, all destined to slavery of one sort or another. Whether it be training within the guard, serving in the kitchens, or being claimed as a toy..

Childhood itself was fairly idyllic.. The young creatures considered fairly useless, they were pretty much left to their own devices. To live like urchins even within the very walls of the compound. Those that were able to steal and scrounge for what they needed to live, did so, and those who could not.. Did not.

Nataniel earned his name from the mistress of the kitchens. A morbidly obese woman of strangely human descent. The grandmotherly figure constantly sneaking the 'pretty' boy bits of food and occasionally letting him nap by the warmth of the fire.

It was true that the unwanted child was in fact lovely. With the fine bone structure of the sylvan combined with the coloring of his Moriel father, if somewhat lighter than any moriel had right to be. His wide eyes the color of burnished copper, easily catching the attention of those prone to such delicately pretty specimens. By the time he began to reach middling status, his body reaching maturity, even if he was not yet considered an adult, he had begun working at odd jobs. Carrying messages for this nobleman. Pulling kitchen duties. Delivering breakfast to the Matron herself on occasion.

As his Majority would near, the boy had garnered quite a following. The strange mixture of Moriel coloring an the sylvan's fey features was enough to make him an exotically pretty catch. The youngsters who were reaching this milestone were rounded up, brought forth, their fates to be forever changed. Those of a more bulky structure, large even for elves, were thrust within service immediately, carried off to the barracks where they would be.. broke in..

Those that were not appealing enough in appearance were sent to the kitchens. To end their days in endless drudgery and toil.. Likely dying within the year..

And once more, that familiar scene played out. The children who had grown up like stray kittens within the keep were evaluated, found to be pleasing of form, of figure. This last handful to be kept as pleasure slaves. To be taught the love of the whip. The rough violence of rape. To pleasure those who wished it as well as performing for those who merely wanted some entertainment..

Two girls, one a bare wisp of a sylvan, the other a halfbreed like Nataniel. Her skin darker than his, verging on the midnight black that was so common in the 'Gloom, however her hair was a lush, black, making the girl seem almost a walking shadow. Two males. Nataniel himself. And a full Moriel. The two as different as night and day. The slight, pale figure of Nataniel standing beside the dark, bulky form of his companion.

Though life had never been carefree.. There had been something akin to freedom within it, something that was quickly squashed as they were pressed into service. The life of an unwanted orphan replaced with that of a pleasure slave. Though there was little that could be called 'Pleasure' within it. It was rare that the slender boy was allowed the touch of a woman, the Matron preferring to watch.. Her tastes running towards the wash of blood, the snap of the whip. Watching her favored pets sodomized by the guards.. Passed around at parties..

The Matron enjoyed watching her favorite toy strapped down, screaming under lash that would soon have him a bloody mess writhing upon the floor. However, she did not enjoy her pretty slave to be marked, at the end of every evening's festivities he would find himself dragged to the Priestess, left in her vicious care to be tormented and healed. Sleeping off the weakness.. Only to have the whole cycle begin again the next day.

The slave's life became one of never-ending torment. Until he began to yearn for the whip, writhing and begging for more of its vicious attention. His body pushing back into the almost predictable sodomy that would follow such crimson-soaked performances. Strangely, this fervor that came over him in the grasp of torment only made him more popular. Until the halfbreed toy was the most requested toy. Decorating the table during feasts. Spending the night tied to the bed of dignitaries, whimpering under their vicious attentions. The boy never failing to fall completely under the spell of the moment.

Until the night that all hell broke loose.

The Matron's daughter, and only living heir, had staged a coup. Derunae had been working in the shadows for some time. Slowly eroding her Mother's power. Gathering the reins. Subverting some of the Houses closest allies to her side. For years she had been coloring her Mother as a senile old hag, despite the fact that elfin agelessness did not make the woman look more than thirty. It had been a tedious process, one that came to a head upon the first night of the Blood Swan Moon.

The latest herd of slaves had been marked for the dubious honor of being sacrificed to Kirva. It was to be a bloody ritual with all the trimmings. Lust, worship, and violence has only those who had bartered away their very souls to Kirva could attain. Derunae had been preparing for this very night, designing the web that would catch her Mother, and wrap her forever in its tight embrace.

This fate came in a very mundane jar. A seemingly simple drought. A drought that had taken nearly the whole of those two years to manufacture. The ingredients obtained from far and wide, those sent out put to death to retain the secrecy. It was a plan that had been brewing for nearly the whole of Derunae's life. A life that hinged upon that night.

With a smile Derunae would wait within her room, the vial lightly rolled within her palm, warmed by the constant stroking as she would shift it from one hand, to the other. A timid knock upon the door was answered immediately. A silver haired boy framed within it as the heavy portal swung open. 'Enter..' That soft voice beckoning the light skinned boy forward. The known favorite of the Matron. Known to entertain her most nights, that very night to be no exception.

Her eyes would slowly draw over his form. It was clear that he had already been part of the festivities, his body covered in welts, his gaze fleeing her own. 'Come now, there is no need to be afraid here..' She had never met the boy, preferring to spend what pleasurable moments she did pursue with those of the stronger sex. The Moriel standing quietly, moving towards the boy, her fingers softly grasping his chin, drawing his face upwards to meet hers. 'Sweet boy, you have been used hard.. I have felt sorry for you ever since my mother chose you as hers.. I feel sorry for all of you..' Her voice, so sincere, so sweet.

'I simply cannot stand it any longer..' Crimson eyes meeting his coppery orbs, drawing his gaze into her own, consuming him. 'My mother is a tyrant.. It pains me to admit such..' She would fall back into her chair, drawing the boy forth, slowly caressing his face. The creature seemed utterly stunned by such treatment, having only ever known the touch of males in tenderness.. He would shift against her, pressing his face to her thigh as if in pitiful thanks. 'Sweet, sweet boy..' Crooned lightly to him as her fingers would brush through his hair, pulling it out of his face, watching his expression. 'It pains me to say this, but something must be done.. I have a mission for you, my sweet one..' It might be too soon, she had waited 'til the last moment to put this last piece into play. 'I have concocted a potion that will sooth my Mother's madness..'

That was only the beginning.. The Moriel woman spent most of the day talking the near-silent boy into doing her dirty work, but by the end of it he walked from her presence with that vial.. hidden.. Derunae's smile slowly widening as she would watch him leave.

'Check, mother.' Spoken to the empty room.

***

Nataniel had been ordered to serve wine.. Wearing nothing more than a well twined rope, pressing around his aroused cock, keeping him at a constant state of arousal, painful need that was nearly strangled at his every step. Standing beside his Matron's seat, refilling her wine cup whenever the levels of libations would wan. Enduring her vicious tastes when she decided she wanted entertainment, casually eating as her serving boy was bent over the table. Forced to beg the guardsman to use the hilt of his spear to violate him for her amusement.

The elixir he had slipped into her drink seeming to have no effect.. At least.. Not at first. It was subtle at first. A slight relaxing to the older Moriel's normally rigid stance. A smile gracing her normally stern face. Most were so deep in their cups as to not notice. Though the serving boys began to look askance at one another.

The real effects did not begin to manifest until the party had convened to the temple. Intent upon their vicious ritualistic celebration. No one was more stunned than Nataniel when the Matron refused to kill the first young woman brought to the alter.. Her body rubbing against the girl.. Seeming to enjoy the feel of skin against skin.. Something the woman had never allowed herself, especially not in public.. Though it was not until the Matron began dancing nude in the middle of the floor, giggling maniacally that Derunae stepped forward, plunging a dagger into her own Mother's heart, spilling her bloody across the feet of Kirva's statue.

The Matron humiliated in front of the whole of her vast network of followers.. Considered Touched. Despised of Kirva. The daughter gaining the support of the smaller houses that had clung to House Vlos Or`Shanse for protection. Becoming the next Matron without a seeming struggle, no one alive able to connect her to the seeming insanity of her predecessor.. Save one.

The new Matron had no interest in boys. Preferring the softer flesh of their feminine counterparts, most especially of the paler ken. Though she took special interest in one half-moriel mutt. Consigning him not to death, but rather a life of eternal agony. Relegated to the deepest recesses of the dungeon, a plaything for those guards that spent the long nights. The boy living like a rat, barely surviving upon the crusty bits of bread he was allowed.

It was nearly two years before the boy managed to find his chance. The guards having had their usual fun with him, his body degraded, sore, nearly broken from their constant attentions, not to mention near anorexic from lack of sustenance. He found, to his surprise, that the guards had fallen asleep. Apparently not considering a broken, begging toy to be worth their concern, they had not even bothered to put him back into his 'cage'. He grasped his fortune with both hands, slipping from the dungeons by pure chance. The boy wasting no time in finding a disguise. His slender physique, his feminine features, his long hair swept back from his face, he wreathed himself in the robes of a priestess. Wearing the heavy hood upwards so that those that merely glanced at his face might mistake him for a full blooded female. Those lips that had never broken into a smile were perfectly suited for the angry frown that graced them.

It was almost an antithesis of his story that he was able to simply walk from the keep without being stopped. Though such did not change his status, rather, living like a rat within the warren of caves that was the gloom, rather than a rat within a dungeon. It was nearly three years before the boy managed to find his way to the surface, quite by accident. The blinding rays of the sun sending him scurrying back into the comforting darkness of the cavern. Blinking furiously to regain his sight. He did not dare leave the darkness again until night had fallen.

Upon the surface life became both easier, and harder. Food was more readily obtainable. Both by thievery, and scavenging. Yet he was despised by those of pure elfin descent, often chased from their villages on the sharp end of the spear.. Though the farther he traveled from the 'Gloom, the more human the population, the more he seemed accepted. At least on the surface, anyone who trusted a Moriel, even a -half- Moriel, was likely too stupid to make it far in life.

That was, until he finally stumbled upon an empire that seemed built upon a melting pot of races. Where one was almost as likely to run into a Moriel, as they were a human, or one of the Fae-folk. A town by the name of Nanthalion..

Filled with anger and a sort of animal hunger, the boy searched out the way to true power. Power over the elements.. Power over the mind. Magic. Searching out one who could teach him these concepts. One who could coax him to learn, to draw upon the very forces of the world around him and bend him to his will.

He found such a teacher in the person of Greywind Darkholm. A powerful mage, a Cryomancer of the wolven persuasion. Though, it might be said that the wolf found the Moriel. Claiming the slaveboy as an apprentice.. and a toy..

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