Electricity
Lightning strikes the horizon, briefly illuminating the rolling woodland beyond the fields surrounding the settlement. With the rolling grumble of thunder, fat drops of cool rain fill the air, piercing the heat from the long, late summer and dimming the night time panorama back to a dull grey. From the window of a cheap inn, a woman leans out, braced against the sill with locked elbows, stretching her head out past the eaves to turn her face up to the cooling downpour. Her throat catches on a half-stifled sigh of relief as the cold water darkens and plasters her hair to her head, highlighting the delicate horns curving back from her brow and causing the violet flowers rooted behind her ears to turn gently and open. It trickles down over bare shoulders and tattooed back, soaking her breastband and tracking over her bare stomach to the belt of her soft leggings.
She pulls back out of the rain and sighs contentedly, settling back on her elbows to gaze out of the window. A quick shake of her head sends a miniature rainfall down onto the head of the woman sat on the end of the pallet next to her. The other woman pauses from cleaning her long and heavy sword to glance up irritably at her, smoothing the water off her crest of feathers. The horned woman glances over her shoulder and a smile tugs at her lips.
"Sorry. You were complaining about always being too warm here earlier, though."
Pallegina narrows her avian eyes briefly, but turns back to her sword, muscles rippling under her loose shirt.
"You think you are funny." Her voice is heavily accented, exotic and rich.
"She is funny."
The third occupant of the room lays on the furthest pallet, closest to the door. Tall, bearded and shirtless, he lies back with one arm behind his head, legs crossed, completely at ease in the sparse bunkhouse room. Sweet blue smoke from his pipe coils through the room and he winks briefly at the horned woman. She bites her lower lip to hide it, but she can't stifle the grin.
"At least with the window open Edér won't smoke us all out." He chuckles.
"You're one to talk."
Their idle taunting is interrupted as the door opens and a man strides in, wild hair and beard and filthy robe strangely at odds with the roasted mutton leg and flagon of ale in his hands. He glances around the room for a free pallet and his eyes settle briefly on the woman at the window. His lip curls as he glances past her.
"Whore." He settles down on the last free pallet as she turns back out of the window.
"Cunt." Her response is idle and without malice. He says this every time they camp. She refuses to be stifled by heat in her own bedroll, and Durance spits the word as a compliment, the way he both reviles and revels in his goddess. At camps, in battle, healing spells and wound binding, bathing in streams and lakes – for adventurers, privacy is a luxury and every traveller had seen their companions naked. The difference between a shirt and a breastband was nothing. Then again, perhaps she's overthinking even that and the man simply liked the sound of the word.
She turns her back to the window and leans on the sill briefly, then pushes off and settles back on a free pallet, opening a small pouch on her belt. The room settles into a companionable silence as the chatter and music from the inn below and the roar of the storm filters through. She smooths out a sticky, pressed rolling leaf into her lap and begins to shred in dried svef buds from the pouch, tearing them into tiny pieces with her nails. Pallegina continues to clean and care for her weapon, softly murmuring in prayer as she reaffirms her faith in her complicated cause. Edér's eyes are closed, pipe held loosely in a cupped hand resting on his chest. The tiny, stoic ranger Sagani is already asleep, breathing gently, mouth slightly open, one hand loosely resting on the pelt of the white fox next to her. Aloth, the wizard, sits cross-legged on his pallet, poring over scrolls and scraps of paper; his sculpted, elfin face absorbed in concentration. He, too, is shirtless in the heat, revealing the whorls of dark blue ink staining his right shoulder; she wonders again if Durance had a good relationship with his mother. He doesn't seem to feel the need to comment on shirtless men.
Durance himself is settled on his pallet, worrying at his meal and muttering obscenities to his own deity. She muses on whether the two prayers to such different Gods cancel each other out.
She slips the remaining svef back into its oiled pouch and pulls out a tiny vial of cream coloured powder, which flows like liquid inside the glass. Uncorking it, she carefully taps until a fine sprinkling of the ground sponge settles on the shredded buds. Replacing the vial, she rolls the sticky leaf around with a practised hand, and smooths down to seal it. Pausing to glance around her cot, she spies a beady eye following her from behind a coiled white tail. Tucking the roll behind her ear, moving gently, she opens a different pouch and pulls a piece of dried meat out, holding it out to the tiny white wyrmling. It immediately uncoils and chirps at her, sniffing the air before scrabbling up to her lap, placing tiny claws onto her chest and sniffing at her face. She holds the treat up in front of it, pulling the roll-up from behind her ear. The wyrmling chirps again and blows a tiny spark, which she draws from, exhaling a column of dark, spiced, slowly coiling smoke. She feeds the treat to the dragon, which grasps it with curious claws, inspects it briefly, cocking its head this way and that, and scuttles away. She settles back on her cot.
"Can't you do that outside?" Pallegina's voice is heavy with disapproval, although she doesn't look up from her task. The woman does look up, surprised.
"What? You've never asked that of me before."
"We are not always inside when we rest." The comment manages to be simultaneously blunt and pointed. The woman looks around in indignation but Sagani and Edér are asleep, and Durance is conducting a muttering, vitriolic argument with what appears to be himself. Aloth glances up briefly, catching her eye, but shrugs and returned to his notes.
"Please," Pallegina sets her sword aside "I do not ask you to follow my faith, but I cannot have that poison in my lungs."
"As if you all don't have your own poisons." Her tone is still irritable, but resigned. She replaces the roll behind her ear and stalks out of the room, grabbing a shirt from the untidy heap of backpacks and equipment, and throwing it over her head.
She makes her way through the inn and out into the alley at the side, pushing up the overly-long sleeves to her elbows, giving a half-hearted pull on the lacing to cover her shoulders. The rain still pours down, although a patch in the clouds allows a shaft of bright moonlight through, lending a shimmering, eerie quality to the air. Leaning against a large supply crate, she looks around, sighs irritably and rummages through her pockets. She pulls out a match and strikes it on the wall next to her, cupping the flame in her hands to shield it from the breeze and the light drizzle making its way into the alley. She manages to get it alight and inhales deeply, releasing another column of that dark, spicy smoke with a sigh of relief. She leans back on her elbows, rolling her neck backwards to stretch, closing her eyes and allowing her thoughts to drift.
Several moments pass. Thunder rolls in the distance, and the sounds of the inn filter through again. Music gives way to rowdier chatter as the inn's local regulars drink themselves into oblivion, away from the harsh reality of bandit raids, warring lords, wet summers, rotting grain, and the constant, oppressive spectre of the Hollowborn. Tomorrow they journey out again, and no doubt the storm will provide the perfect excuse for the rogue animacers they seek to fill the woodland with earth and rain blights, vessels and all manner of violence. Just once, she thinks, it would be nice to be able to travel freely without the need for a weapon.
Sensing a presence, she opens her eyes, and sees Aloth, moving to lean against the wall next to her. The eerie moonlight highlights the deep blue of his hair, and the sharp lines of his face are thrown into contour by silvery shadows. He settles himself, arms folded, one foot against the wall, and raises an eyebrow at her.
"What?" The question sounds petulant, even to her.
"Bad mood?" Their travels, and Iselmyr, have worn the edges off his accent, but Aedyrans train their sons well, and he would always sound cultured. It had actually worked in their favour many times.
"No. Sorry. Just tired." She offers him the roll, and he takes it and draws, but it refuses to light. She looks around again for matches, but he waves her away, conjuring a small flame with a gesture. He settles back against the wall, exhaling, and shakes out the flame from his fingertips.
"Perhaps you would be less tired if you slept." She frowns.
"What do you mean?"
"You don't sleep. You're up one watch, and then again the next. You toss and turn and mutter in your sleep. You think we don't speak amongst ourselves." He draws again, and inspects the roll. "What do you put in these?"
"You smoke svef, you know what's in it."
"This isn't just svef." His grey eyes betray no hint of irritation at her tone. The corner of her mouth pulls up into a sly grin.
"Ripple sponge." She searches for the vial and holds it up to show him. "Just a little bit. It stops the lethargy, and the paranoia. Grounds you." He draws again, looking up at the opposite wall.
"Isn't that usually inhaled?" She shrugs, reaching for the roll.
"In Deadfire, this is how we take it."
He passes it back, and her fingers brush his as she takes it. A brief spark of static sends a shiver up her arm, making her pull back sharply. She glances up, but he is still studying the opposite wall, and doesn't appear to have noticed.
She settles back against the box and considers him as she draws. He appears to be lost in thought. His face is still highlighted by the ethereal light, framed by loose dark hair, pulled away from his temples behind delicately pointed ears. His profile is noble, the product of years of careful matches, and he is undeniably handsome. His chest is still bare, revealing that swirling tattoo over his shoulder, like a stark shoulder guard against pale skin. He has picked up a light tan on the road. Like all wizards, he lacks the hard definition and bulging thews of fighters and paladins; his shoulders reveal lithe, corded muscle born of athletic agility. His chest and stomach are smooth and lean, built of that same lithe muscle, with a trail of dark hair running down between his hips down behind his belt. She has seen him moving in combat, channelling and shaping raw, elemental power whilst taking agile steps to avoid missiles and strikes. He moves well.
He stretches his arms out, working out an ache from an earlier combat, and snapping her back to the present. She remembers to exhale and feels the warmth spreading through her, relaxing her muscles and releasing the tension in her mind. She must have sighed, because he turns back to her and a short chuckle escapes his lips.
"Feel better?"
"Gods, yes." A smile plays around his lips. She can't help but respond in kind.
"So what is it that is making you so tense that you smoke every night?" She knows he has his own pouch tucked away in his pack somewhere, and he, along with most of their companions, join her many nights. Adventuring leaves scars on a mind that there are many worse ways to heal, but she knows that isn't what he means. She frowns, and thinks about her answer for once.
"You're right. I can't sleep." She pauses a moment, thinking, then rubs a hand over her face, smoothing her wet hair back, and rests her head to one side on the wall. When she continues speaking, her voice is measured, her words carefully framed.
"Every time I close my eyes, I see this life. Or that life." She pauses again. "Not many of them are pleasant." He reaches for the roll and she passes it back. His expression is concerned and she looks away. There is silence again for a moment, and then, very softly, "How many Awakened souls lose their minds?"
The question is rhetorical.
He blows a series of smoke rings, which float lazily up into the alley until the rain disperses them.
"Fifty years and I haven't." She grins.
"Well…" He grins back, and turns sideways, rolling towards her onto his shoulder.
"There. Enough of a mind to make 'clever' comments. What more do we ask of you?" His smile is teasing, but his eyes meet hers, and for a moment, they burn with the intensity of the passing storm. There is a predator's smile behind them which makes her pulse race and for a moment she feels wild, and vulnerable, and reckless. She feels her pulse jump as he shifts slightly, as if to raise his arm, but a brilliant flash and deafening peal of thunder distract him briefly, breaking eye contact, and the moment is gone. She relaxes, although she couldn't pinpoint from what.
"Perhaps you could ask for the presence of mind not to make clever comments to the wrong people." She winces. "Remember Abrecan Doemenel?" He chuckles.
"You were less than tactful… but correct."
She can't help but smile, and they grin at each other again.
"Gods, that arrogant little father's child." She pauses, then reluctantly pushes herself off the crate. "I should go back up and try to sleep."
He doesn't move, and as she stands, she is suddenly very close to him. He raises a hand, and for a brief moment, she thinks he will touch her cheek, but instead, cool fingertips slip under her chin, raising her face and turning it this way and that.
"You still look tense. You do no one any favours by disturbing their rest." He jerks his chin back towards the crate, and she blinks, then leans back, acceptingly.
Somehow, the movements have left him closer still. She has to look up now to meet his face, small as she is, and she is abruptly very aware of his smooth chest inches from her face. She can still feel the sensation where his fingers brushed her skin.
"So how do we help you to sleep?" His expression is unreadable as he leans against the wall again, arms fodled, still studying her face. She finds herself unable to hold his gaze, and her treacherous eyes track down his jaw and neck, lingering on his smooth chest, down, over his lean stomach, - she glances back up guiltily, grasping at the first comment which comes to mind.
"How is it that you're allowed to be out here without a shirt and I get called a whore?"
The faint smile still plays around his lips; his eyes still burn into her, and they flicker slowly down with his murmured response.
"Because you're wearing my shirt."
She looks down and sees how loosely the hastily snatched garment would hang, had the rain not plastered it to her. His gaze continues to slide down in unmistakeable appreciation of the soft, curving contours revealed by the rain. She feels him slip closer this time, and the mixture of the drugs, and the earthy, fresh scent of him cause a pleasurable shiver in her stomach. She reaches up, half-mesmerised and traces one of the swirling lines on his shoulder.
"What are these for?"
He freezes briefly at her touch, then relaxes. To her intense relief, he looks down to where her fingers brush his skin.
"They store energy. A last resort." He meets her eyes again, and her breath catches as his fingertips brush the outside of her knee. "An unexpected winning hand to be used in dire need."
Something in her belly purrs at his touch. He leans forward slightly, allowing her to explore the swirling lines at the top and side of the design, wrapping around to his back. She is keenly aware of his weight shifting towards her, his fingertips sliding subtly higher, his thigh brushing her hip. His predators gaze burns into her again as she continues to trace the design, running her fingers up his neck, down over his chest. His face is inches from hers, she feels soft lips brush against her jaw, his breath on her neck as he leans closer to her ear. His voice is a soft murmer.
"So what help can we offer you in your hour of need?"
He turns his lips to her jawline, barely touching, not yet sure of her permission. Her exploration trails slowly down his chest, over his stomach. As her fingers brush the line of his belt, his breath comes harder on her neck and a shiver runs down her spine, making her own breath catch and her fingers falter. His fingertips reach her hip and slip agonisingly slowly along the join between her hip and stomach.
Her lips part and a soft gasp slips involuntarily between them. The sound causes something in him to break. Suddenly, he has caught her mouth with his own, his fingers are wrapped in her hair, his palm is on her back, pressing the full length of her body against him. His lips part with a rush of warm air, her head spins, her whole body shivers with raw, hungry need at his touch. Her arms wrap around him as he presses her back against the crate, tilting her head back with the hand in her hair, lips roaming along her jaw, to the sensitive spot just below her ear, and back to her own again, nails digging in to her back. The taste of him on her tongue is fresh and sweet, spiced and smoky from the svef. His skin is cool against her, his warm weight pressed against her takes the chill out of the air.
She gasps as he nips at her earlobe and her nails slip down his spine, drawing something akin to a growl from deep in his throat. With deceptive strength, he lifts her hips, settling her on the edge of the crate. His hand moves around the outside of her thigh, and his hips slip between hers, pushing urgently against her so she can feel him, hard and ready, against her leggings. His mouth is on hers again, and she starts briefly at the touch of his fingers on her breastbone, unravelling the lacing of her shirt, working at her belt buckle. A deft tug slips the too-large shirt off her shoulders, allowing it to slip to her waist; another works her breastband down. He pauses his exploration briefly to look down at her and sees the silver bars winking at the tip of each breast. He grins wickedly at her and she gasps as his palm cups a small, firm breast, fingertips tugging and teasing at her pierced nipple. Her head is pulled back and his lips find her jaw, her breastbone, her chest. She clings to him as his nimble tongue and mouth continue to tease at her breasts, sending pleasured ripples through her belly and over her skin. She barely notices his hand at her belt again, unbuckling it fully and pulling apart the laces of her leggings.
Somewhere from the rain comes the sound of drunken leering. He barely pauses, lips still against her breast, as he murmurs the words of some spell, causing their air around them to shimmer and twist, obscuring them from view. His mouth finds hers again; his hands slide under her and lift her hips, pressing them against him and allowing him to slip her leggings down, dropping over her bare feet to the floor. He moves away slightly, and she coils a leg around him to pull him back, but he is only unbuckling his own belt and soon he is pressed urgently back against her, tugging at ties on her waist, slipping his hand down between her legs to find her centre, warm, and slick and waiting. Deft fingertips stroke and tease as he watches her eyes flutter closed, and her mouth move in silent pleasure. He feels the touch of metal again and the same wicked grin washes over her.
"What have we here..?"
At his murmur, a gasp, or a moan, escapes her, and his body presses against her harder at the sound. He pulls back, slightly, shifting her hips forward, and for a moment time seems to slow as his forehead touches to hers, eyes burning into her own, positioned just at her entrance, hands digging into her hip and in her hair. She gazes back up at him, eyes wild, nut-brown skin flushed, lips parted, mesmerised by desire and drunk on lust. He drinks in the sight of her, all softly defined curves, chest rising and falling hard, her back arched to stretch out under him, and with a sharp thrust, any remaining restraint snaps and he pushes hard into her.
She cries out, and a shuddering groan vibrates in his chest as he drives into her. The first few strokes come hard and fast, then he slows and moves deep and strong inside her. Another soft cry escapes her and she feels his lips curl on her neck as he whispers,
"They can still hear you."
He pushes into her again and she stifles a moan against his shoulder, biting down and drawing a growl from him. She hears the arcane words murmured into her neck again and she feels the static sense of electricity from his fingers on her spine, sending wave after wave of sensation washing over her, matching his measured, thrillingly slow thrusts. His fingers slide up her back, wrapping into her hair, pulling her head roughly backwards to arch her spine and allow his lips access to her breasts again. The electrical sparks of his other hand play over the sensitive skin around her nipple, running up the side of her neck, tingling behind her ear, triggering every sensitive spot on her skin to cause her to shiver and stifle another cry.
"Gods…"
His breath catches and he pushes into her, harder and faster. She pushes back against him, twining her legs around his waist and he groans against her breast, pushing in hard and pulling her lips back up to his, leaning forward to lean her back over the crate. He moves harder, clutching at her back, fingers wrapped tightly in her hair, unable to be close enough, deep enough. A spark crawls over her hip as she hears the strained whisper of her name in her ear and with a cry, she tumbles over the threshold of release. Her body tightens around him and her cries cause him to tense and shudder with his own climax. For a moment, both are locked in pleasure, tensed and pressed together, then, a shuddering sigh escapes her, and she relaxes against him. His own body relaxes, and with a his own pleasured sigh, he turns his face down to touch his forehead to the side of hers.
They sit like that for a moment, waves of sensation receding. He moves to pull away, and she pulls him back, legs crossing behind him, leaning back on her arms, eyes half-closed. He props himself leant over her, once again drinking in the sight of her bare skin, running his fingers smoothly up her side to see the goosebumps form. She closes her eyes fully, enjoying the sensation, and he leans down to kiss her again, softly this time, and sweetly, fingers cupping her cheek and sliding back into her hair. She kisses him back.
The air around them has cleared of the shielding spell, and the susurrating night time noise begins to filter back in. She opens her eyes to meet his and can't stop a sly smile. He mirrors her expression, pulling out of her without pulling away, and hitching up his breeches without breaking her gaze.
"Feel better?"
"Mmm." She pulls the shirt up to cover her breasts, but he moves her hand away and lowers his face, palms on her back, to softly move his lips over them again and her eyes flutter closed, enjoying the sensation.
"Perhaps you should be more shirtless when we camp, not less." She grins.
"Did you cast a potentially dangerous spell on me?" He grins back up at her, wickedly.
"I had it under control." He turns his face down again, lips moving slowly up her breastbone to her neck.
"Mmm…" Her eyes flutter closed again. "What could possibly have given me the impression you weren't quite in control?"
"Are you saying you didn't enjoy it?" He rests his head on one elbow, looking down into her face, his other hand pushing stray hair back from her forehead.
"I didn't say that." She is smiling up at him, and he can't help but smile back. His lips move gently over hers.
"You don't know how many times I have pictured you gasping under me."
They are still pressed together; a spark of heat passes between them, and she feels his body begin to respond again, but then she stretches her arms over her head and yawns hugely. He chuckles and kisses her.
"It would appear that we have stumbled upon a cure for your insomnia."
"It would appear that you are my cure for insomnia."
He pulls back to allow her to dress, then catches her arm and pulls her back against him as he leans on the wall, wrapping her in his arms and kissing her long and sweetly. She rests her head, exhausted, against his shoulder and he kisses the top of her head between her horns.
"Let's get you to your bed."
His fingers brush the base of her back as they walk back into the inn.
She awakes to an empty room the next morning as sunlight streams in through the still-open shutters onto her face. She lays for a moment, allowing the world to filter back in, feeling lighter than air. She gathers her things into her pack, pulling on clothes and boots, and makes her way down the wooden stairs to the inn, where Edér, Sagani and Aloth sit tackling a particularly odd-looking breakfast. The wizard appears once again engrossed in study, but she senses his heartbeat-long pause as she enters the room. Sliding in next to Sagani, who mutely passes her a bowl of… something made from mashed grains? She settles down to eat, looking him over out of the corner of her eye. He doesn't appear to be looking at her either, but she sees the slight smirk tug the corner of his mouth and the brief flicker of sparks he sends racing over the fingertips of one hand. She grins into her breakfast as a pleasurable twist runs through her belly again.
Edér is speaking to her.
"Sorry… What?" He taps out his pipe on the edge of the table.
"I said, you slept well last night. Worth going outside in the rain for?" She grins.
"So it would seem."
"What are you going to do if you run out of…" He pauses, glancing around quickly, "You know… on the road?" He is teasing but his voice betrays genuine fatherly concern. She shoves his shoulder with her own.
"I'll think of something. Stop worrying."
Aloth stands, pushing his bowl away and shoving rolled parchments into his pack.
"I'm going to collect some supplies." His eyes meet hers. "Coming?"
Nobody else sees their wicked grins.
"Definitely."