Legends of Belariath

Ubique et Hic

All About Range

She put her cloak down, folding it into a neat but dirty bundle and leaving it on the edge of the arena’s inner ring. Next to it she put her dragon-handled short sword, her hardened leather whip, and one of her two plain daggers.

Then the Dark Elf stood looking down at the small assembly that usually hung from her belt. One finger rested against her bottom lip, the other hand on her hip as she stood quietly alone in the arena’s center ring.

“I’ve used this before, this blade,” the Dark Elf said, talking to herself softly.

“And this dagger as it’s companion, that I’ve done before as well.” She squatted next to the assembly, her white hair flowing up with the sudden movement, then landing over her chain mail again.

“So it is to be the sword and the whip then,” she smiled to herself, picking up the weapons and walking to the center of the arena.

Yesterday, she had sparred here with her most trusted ally, a troll of great size and strength. And though she had been his better in agility and had nicked him several times on the thigh and abdomen, he had won the day with a quick head butt that had pretty much put her out of commission.

It was lucky for her that her heart’s protector had been there. The cat elf lover had healed both her wounds and that of the troll’s with nothing more than a tender hand and a distasteful herb for each.

Now she had returned, aggravated and fired up within her soul, to relive the match and see what she had done wrong, and what she could possibly do better. Whip in her right hand for control, short sword again in her left, she began to circle an unseen opponent.

“As water has no constant form, there are in war no constant conditions,” she said quietly to herself, speaking an ancient fighting credo she had researched recently.

“Adapt! Be without form!”

With that said, she cracked the whip, her wrist flicking the long tendril of the weapon out into the air then reeling it back in.

The Dark Elf was beginning to sweat, the dim sun of Belariath beating down on her where she circled no one in the sand.

“Adapt!” she cried again, swinging the whip out sideways this time, pulling it back before it had completed the motion.

If she had an opponent, she would have been snaring his ankles with that gesture – or her’s.

She grinned eagerly. Blinking against the beads of sweat trailing down her face and getting into her eyes, she took a moment to wipe her lashes with the back of her whip hand. When she opened her eyes again, she was not alone.

He stood there as if he had always been there, his large chest proud and out, his armor shining and of a good quality she would not see for a long time. His own white hair flapped in a sudden breeze, pulling back from his dark blue face. And his palest blue eyes gazed into her own.

She knew that look, better than she knew him.

Standing still now, she immediately lowered her weapons. The last thing she would want is to be disrespectful of the danger he presented to her here, and have him come at her for the offense.

“Vendui’, sir,” she said quietly, grinning up at his greater height.

“Hello again,” he answered just as softly.

For a moment, their eyes remained lock, and many things passed that were unspoken. Then he removed his own cloak, laying it far behind him. He turned to her, taking on a fighter’s stance and facing her with empty hands.

She smirked, still not changing positions.

“Is this how you keep your word to me?”

He nodded.

“I said I would teach you. I will.”

Finally she nodded, approving, and crouched down once more. No longer having to imagine the troll’s beady eyes facing her, she looked into the opposite Dark Elf’s burning ice gaze, sighting him down the flat of her blade. Her whip lay against her right leg, her arm tense but loose, ready to strike.

They began to circle. She thought she had the offensive, edging him around the arena as he turned inch by inch to keep her infront of his face. Then he struck.

His fist flew out of nowhere, catching her full in the chest then pulling back and away. Even as she struck out with the whip, he was avoiding it safely out of her range, crouched still as if he had never moved.

She ached now. She hurt. Her lungs felt empty and dry as she sucked air back inside. But she accepted the pain as the lesson it was. And she crouched again, pulling her arm in slightly.

“First lesson,” he said wryly to her.

“Range. Never be within range.”

She nodded, thinking. Then she pulled her left arm in almost unnoticeably.

“As water has no constant form, there are in war no constant conditions,” she said, muttering quietly to herself to keep herself calm.

Perhaps she could give an illusion of having a shorter range than she really did. Perhaps she could lure lesser opponents in with that range misperception.

They continued to circle, the male Dark Elf grinning at the female.

Then he struck again, a flurry of sudden fists. She struck with her whip towards his ankles, but as he danced in with his fists, aimed at her chest but coming just short, he leapt the tendril easily and it recoiled, having found nothing to snare. Her sword arm swung horizontally towards his grinning face, but he ducked from the slow move and continued pressing forwards.

She was on the defensive now, arching her back to avoid those fists and leaping on her own now to keep away from him.

“Adapt and be without form,” she scolded herself.

She jumped back, once, twice, three times, until she realized he was herding her to the sidewall of the arena. Once there, she’d be stuck for sure. She began to dance to the side, struggling to avoid his weaponless hammering hands.

At the last moment, when she was almost free, he swept her feet just as she was landing from a backwards leap, and down she went, striking the ground with her hip.

“Fuck!” she cursed.

The vibration went through to the bone and she winced, but continued to roll out of his path. Away from him now, she struggled to rise.

He walked up to her, booting her in the side with his toes and turning her over onto her back. Then he dropped and straddled her, grinning down at her complacent face.

She looked up at him, disappointed in herself. Her hands lay near her head, the weapons useless now at this range. And he folded his arms across his chest in the most self-assured manner. She wanted to snarl at him and say something quip, but he had won and rightfully so. She had been slow and careless.

“It’s all about range,” he said.

“But if I stay out of your range, how do I keep you in mine,” she pointed out, panting beneath him from the earlier blow to her chest.

“Now that is the secret, isn’t it, pretty one. How do you do just that?”

“Well shouldn’t you tell me? So I know?”

He shook his head, putting a hand on either side of her face.

“Some things you will have to learn through practice. You have a good head on your shoulders. You have fought before, you have skills. Now you need to apply them to the right situation.”

He was looking at her very seriously now, the arrogant and cocky look gone from his face. She eyed him back, studying his gaze as their pale eyes locked and held. She could almost see the change occurring within those eyes, could almost see one attitude replace another.

Then he was bending down to her face, kissing her, the white blanket of his hair a curtain from the sun as his lips met hers and pulled at them deeply.

She let her weapons go, and put a palm on either side of his head, stroking that fine white hair. His hand moved over her armor, unlatching the chain at the shoulders and peeling it away from between them. For a brief moment, his mouth left hers as he pulled his own armor up over his head. She lay there, watching him, serene and smiling, until his mouth returned to kiss at her lips, her chin, her neck.

Then his hands were tugging at her tunic and fiddling with the laces of her breeches. His breathing was hard. She grinned, pushing him back, and he kicked his leggings free. His hands moved back to hers, stripping her as she slipped the tunic over her head. She lay on the dirt of the arena floor, smiling up at him.

“I love the feel of you beneath me,” he groaned, laying over her naked.

His member pressed against her, hot and ready, but he did not enter her. He lapped at her neck, moving to her breasts.

For a moment she sighed contentedly. Then his mouth suckled at one nipple, pulling the dark and sensitive tissue between his lips. She could feel her own fires being stoked and fueled, and she raised her legs up around the backs of his.

Still he did not enter her.

“Please,” she whispered.

“Take me, enter me.”

He lifted his face, moving over her and nuzzling her neck.

“I can’t hear you,” came his sly retort.

But there was anxiety in his voice as well, earnest desire.

“Take me! Please!” she cried, writhing up against him.

And at last, he did. The hot head of his cock slipped between her folds, finding them wet and well lubricated, and thrust deep within her. She lifted her naked buttocks from the grit of the arena floor and squeezed him with her legs, forcing him within. His arms went beneath her spine, clutching her close, almost desperate with his need.

They began to buck and rock there, in the center of that fighter’s arena, unclothed bodies snaking in the sand and the dirt. Sweat mixed with the fruits of their desire leaked from between their bodies, to land on the sand and mingle with the blood and gore that must have graced that dirt floor so many times over the eons.

“Fuck me!” she called to him, her voice loud and demanding near his pointed ear.

He pushed deep into her, as deep as he could. And she encouraged him, her hands gripping him as tightly as her legs. At last, with near to no effort, he was overcome and giving in, pouring his hot seed into her. And feeling his throbbing member buried so deep, she cried out, loudly. Her own orgasm followed the echo of that outburst, and she squeezed around him tightly, milking him. Her arms flailed almost angrily against his back, clawing at his shoulder blades and spine in a near agonized twisting and wrenching. Her whole body went out of control, pressed to him, her entire musculature as tight as a lashed out whip.

Then suddenly, she was limp in his arms.

He looked down at her, panting.

“I win,” he whispered, brushing a sweaty lock of hair out of her eyes.

Then he rolled onto his back, holding her above him again.

And she smiled down at him, watching as his eyes lost that desire and lust and returned to their calculating look. She grinned at his gaze, above him now, their bodies still stuck together with sweat and grime.

“Adapt, and be without form.”

He raised an eyebrow, curious to the meaning of her words.

“If this is you winning, then I don’t mind it at all. I win, as well.”

And she quoted the credo to him:

“As water has no constant form, there are in war no constant conditions…”

She ground her pelvis against him and he growled, frustrated with the talk of war.

Just then a noise sounded beyond the entry to the arena. He made to move from between her arms, but she pressed down on him, entangling her legs with his.

She hated secrets, and would not let him so easily hide what they had done. He had already once dared to question whether she was ashamed to show her lust for him openly, something she had of course denied.

She was Dark Elf. If a Dark Elf female wanted something, she took it, by any means necessary. And how she wanted him.

Walking into the arena came her sister and a half-Dark Elf slave. She looked at them, making sure her kin saw the position she was in. Then she got up, letting her partner rise as well.

“And what were you two doing naked on the floor, here?” the new Dark Elf questioned, as if she needed to ask.

With a confident voice, his eyes averted to his clothing, the male answered.

“I was teaching her how to fight…as I said I would…”

He quickly put on his clothing and moved up to the tier of seats nearby.

But she didn’t get dressed so quickly.

Suddenly, the sun felt good on her flesh. She could feel a dozen million scrapes from the hard as glass sand and grit of the arena floor. Her buttocks, the backs of her thighs, even her shoulder blades and spine all ached from the scratching sands. Carefully, she dressed, her eyes on the large male slave her sister had brought.

“So, sister,” her kin said to her.

“Learn anything new?”

“Xas, I did,” she said, moving not to the stands but to one side of the arena, gathering up her cloak and weapons.

As she clasped the dragon brooch of her cloak together, she met her sister’s expectant gaze.

“It’s all about range,” she said, winking.

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