The spire of the Gypsy Road Kabal was alight with the splendor and glow of its magnificent patriarch. Sparing no expense in his décor, the prestigious Archon filled his galleries, halls, balconies, and landings with his finest artwork, macabre and otherwise. Slaves of all species were seen on the floor this day, washed and groomed like prizes themselves. Each performed a mundane task fit for their breeding with both diligence and quiet appreciation for the favors they were afforded. For today at least, they would be spared the whip. Every wall of the spire was garnished with tapestries, some of still living victims, others made of the rare fabrics and skins of esoteric species wiped from existence by Salendrid's own hand. The Archon strolled the vestibule at his leisure, admiring the beautifying work being done as a whole entourage followed behind, including Kylendris.
Wracks of the Didactic Cave, their bodies freshly hewn and tattooed with the peculiar beauty only a flesh sculptor could truly appreciate, marched behind their new Acothyst, Glaucon. An Haemonculus, an Eldar Kylendris had not yet had the personal trauma of meeting, wafted gracefully behind the Archon on needle thin legs. His figure was so unnaturally thin and tall he nearly had to bend beneath the vaulted ceiling. Withered limbs clutched a variety of arcane baubles, each of which ticked or shimmered with a keen glare that made Kylendris nervous to stand too close.
Beside the Archon marched Lady Arataire, her body swathed in luxurious furs. Her Bloodbrides, handpicked maidens of slaughter and unmatched physical perfection, formed a single file line behind her, led by their Syren, Chariath. It was behind them with the many other Wyches, arena fighters, and hangers-on that Kylendris found himself. His company were glory hounds and sycophants, each capable of slitting his throat before he could so much as flinch. The subtle looks and gestures they made to passersby as they rounded the halls kept him alert. For years he endured their constant derision, the Wyches of the Cult of Claws never letting him forget that he was hand-picked by the Syren herself. That was something he would not live down no matter how many foes he slew in the arenas.
The hall opened up as groveling slaves and Kabalite Warriors in spit-polished purple armor bowed before the passing Archon. Large double doors leading to his throne room yawned towards them, revealing a scene of ceremony and jest in equal measure. As he entered, the Archon's Incubi guard fanned out, creating a barrier between himself and the others present. Kylendris walked into the throne room with his fellow Wyches and the meaning behind all this posturing became clear. In the center, watched on all sides by Trueborn and Incubi guards, was a small group of Craftworlders. A Warlock in black and bone robes stood before them. Worry was set into his brow with just a tinge of disgust as the Archon's procession encircled the room. At his side, ten Dire Avengers held their shuriken weapons at rest. They looked like a somber blue island amongst the sea of splendid color and emotion roiling around them. Courtiers murmured and laughed at the stoic guests, their drab armor clashing with the intensity the Gypsy Road flaunted.
Salendrid casually took his seat on the throne of his spire, his Incubi moving beside him as the throng that paraded in his wake gradually maneuvered and relaxed around the large dais that overlooked the Craftworlders below. Kylendris looked down, twenty stairs rolled below him to the small, brave Eldar who now stood before one of the most powerful men in all of Corespur. Accepting a goblet from a Lhamaean courtier, a gesture Kylendris shuddered to imagine doing himself, the Archon nodded gently towards his guests below, "Warlock Palmarias of Ulthwé, this does come as a surprise." He took a sip, his lips creasing into a smile as he savored the wine inside before spitting the contents into a vase held by a slave. "What would cause the mighty soldiers of your Warp-torn nation to deign to venture into my realm?"
The Warlock bowed low, "Archon Salendrid, thank you for your generous welcome." Straightening up, he said, "I have come to propose a joint venture between the Gypsy Road Kabal and the warriors of the Craftworld Ulthwé, if your grace would be so inclined to hear the offer."
Salendrid's weak smile gave way to a full grin, it was unusual for the Craftworld Eldar to venture to the Dark City, and even more so to come with humility. Kylendris knew this flattery was not going to change the Archon's mind on the matter at hand, but it did set the negotiations for sparing their lives well in the Warlock's favor. With a wave of his hand, the Archon said reassuringly, "Speak, Warlock. You have my ear."
The Warlock reached slowly into his robes and produced a holographic projector. He thumbed across it to an impression of a planet, the dream-like window before them panning over the countryside and city blocks of a human settlement. "This magnificent world was seeded by our kin long ago. However, as with too many of our Maiden Worlds, it has become overrun with the rank and shiftless mon-keigh. In spite of our efforts our Exodite brethren, we are sad to say, did not survive their coming." Flicking his thumb, the sequence shifted to the baroque image of a human fane, "We require a more permanent foothold in this sector now, and what better way than to strike vengeance against these humans and reestablish our colony."
Salendrid sat back in his throne, "Your endeavor is touching, Warlock," he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm, "but I fail to see how this involves the Gypsy Road in any way."
Several of the Bloodbrides standing beside Kylendris gave flirting and rude gestures towards the Dire Avengers, their revealing Wych suits showing off long, immaculate legs and bosoms that strained against supple leather bindings. The young pilot looked away, thankful that Chariath allowed him to continue wearing his pilot's helmet, lest the entire audience would see him blushing. In spite of his time here he still had not gotten used to the sensuality that came with being a member of a Wych Cult. Living with Archon Irons was one thing, but nothing had prepared him for these licentious girls.
The Warlock raised his hand, "There is a complication." The image shifted to a number of Eldar being held in human restraints, their flesh lashed and scarred from continuous whippings. Some were branded with the contrived scriptures of the mon-keigh, their skin still black from the hot iron. Amongst them was a face that looked familiar to Kylendris. Her eyes and mouth were sewn shut and her head shaved, but he could recognize that sneer anywhere.
"Erinyes Irons…" Salendrid said breathlessly, leaning forward in his seat.
"The human Ecclesiarchy captured them when they emerged from a webway portal not far from the human cities. It appears they were responsible for the previous capture of several members of their Inquisition, their so-called 'Sisters'." The Warlock nodded towards the Archon dutifully, "I thought it would be in our mutual interest to inform you of this development."
The taunts circling the throne room immediately gave way to whispers of suspicion and Kylendris grew restless. The entirety of Corespur knew the Iron Maidens tried to usurp Salendrid and that Archon Irons nearly succeeded in murdering him herself. Though he drove them off and shored up his alliance with the Cult of Claws, Salendrid never caught the one behind the mutiny in the first place. As a rising Archon, it would not do to let one's most outspoken rival survive, even as a prisoner of the mon-keigh. Erinyes Irons needed to be dealt with for she was the one and only Eldar who openly opposed Salendrid's rise and still drew breath.
The Archon steepled his fingers, gazing at the image of the naked and brutalized Eldar projected before his court. Kylendris could see the gears turning in his head. Killing Erinyes Irons would guarantee his position in the upper spires of Commorragh and put to rest any question of his power over the lesser Kabals he commanded, this was too fortunate an opportunity to pass up. With a silken tone he spoke at last, "What is it you request, Warlock?"
"Your assistance in cleansing the planet," he said.
His lip quivered a bit in annoyance, "As I already said, I do not see how my forces are required for this undertaking. Ulthwé is more than capable of ridding this world of such a paltry human inhabitance."
The Warlock bowed once more, "Please forgive me, Archon, but this is a covert undertaking even amongst the warriors of Ulthwé. There are events unfolding that cloud the judgment of my contemporaries, and I fear by the time they are willing to act it will be too late." He gestured to the Dire Avengers behind him, "Of course, I will lend what support I can, but my forces alone are not enough to take the planet."
The Haemonculus, who up until this point was eyeing the handiwork the human torturers had done on the Eldar bodies, leaned over the Archon's throne. His spindly frame bent over so far to reach his ear it was as though he were speaking to a child. The Archon nodded as he whispered something, a smile wicking across his icy countenance. "In return for this raid you ask," the Archon said, "I would like all the prisoners of this world, both Eldar and human."
"You wish to capture the humans?" The Warlock asked.
"The Coven of the Didactic Cave would be interested in acquiring a few more specimens for their collection, and I cannot refuse a chance to be in their good graces."
The Warlock bowed his head slightly, "So be it."
"You will hear from us shortly, Warlock," he said, taking another sip of his wine. "In the meantime, return to your business. I will send for your council as soon as our preparations are ready."
"Thank you, your Excellency," he said, backing away.
The Dire Avengers circled the Warlock as he approached the main door, stepping into a hallway lined as far as the eye could see with purple armored Kabalites. As soon as the door was shut, those in the throne room broke into gossip and speculation, their murmurs ringing in Kylendris' ears. The Archon sipped his wine once more, his nostrils flaring, "Oh Erinyes, the torture you endure now is paradise compared to what I have in store."
The Bloodbrides and Wyches gradually began to disperse as their Succubus fell into conversation with the Haemonculus of the Didactic Cave. While not the vaunted Meliankris, it appeared she had met this ghastly Eldar before. Perhaps, Kylendris thought, during her resurrection. Amidst the carousal that grew up around him, Chariath briskly pulled him aside. She led him by the arm and the small pilot had to run to keep up with her long strides.
"Is-is there something wrong, mistress?" he asked.
"We have matters to discuss, Kylendris," she replied sternly. The breather covering her face seethed a white steam as she exhaled, the splintermind extract sharpening her wits. She led him through the crowd, pushing lesser Eldar out of the way as they walked through the side hall. Cold sweat rolled down his back. Her stiff grip and sense of urgency made Kylendris feel as though he were being led to his own execution. As they moved across a balcony overlooking Corespur she halted. Most of the crowd was still inside, with only the warrior guards and a few amorous patrons lingering outdoors. Letting his arm go, she said point blank, "Your prior allegiance is going to be a problem."
"You mean with the Iron Maidens?" Kylendris asked.
She did not reply, her withering eyes telling him he knew the answer.
"I swore fealty to the Cult of Claws," he replied. "My loyalty to the Iron Maidens died with that oath."
"I know your oath, but I also know the denizens of Commorragh. Your word is not enough."
"So… so what will you do with me?" he asked, taking a step back from the imposing Syren.
Chariath placed her hands on her hips, feeling the handles of her trophy lightning claws, "Until this matter with the former Archon Irons is dealt with, you will not be permitted to go unescorted."
"Umm… unescorted?" he looked around her and into the hallway beyond, where several of the Bloodbrides were taunting a patrol of Gypsy Road warriors. "You mean they are going to follow me, my Syren?"
She nodded, "I will appoint Wyches to stay with you under strict orders not to let you out of their sight."
Kylendris backed up until he ran into the stone railing of the balcony, nearly falling over before he caught himself, "This cannot be happening."
"It is necessary," the Syren said. As Kylendris sank further down the railing she added, "Your loyalty to the Cult of Claws has been exemplary thus far. Consider this a favor on my part. I am not allowing others to tarnish your reputation with suspicions."
"But my Syren, please," he said, his voice giving way to desperate, throaty pleading. "They are going to kill me."
"They will do no such thing," she replied flatly.
"No, I mean…" the pilot swallowed hard, "Before joining the Cult of Claws I never personally dealt with Wyches. They can be rather…aggressive when it comes to their um, desires."
"I know they can."
"They pursue me on my way to my chambers. They ambush me while I maintain my jetfighter. I cannot tell you how many times I have found their… presents on my flight stick."
"I know."
He looked around helplessly, "Well, why do you allow it?"
The Syren crossed her arms, "Kylendris, your prudish nature was novel, even quaint, but it has now become a problem." His head fell a bit, this conversation was a long time coming. "Loyal or not, without the camaraderie my Wyches share, your usefulness in our raids is hindered. My gladiatrixes are sensual even by Kabalite standards and they cannot trust what they cannot touch. I will not risk their lives or yours in this coming venture without knowing you are completely dedicated to my Cult."
Kylendris slumped to his knees, "But my Syren, I—"
"Your skills as a pilot are unquestionable. I would even consider you for a wing leader, but you must prove your commitment to the others first."
"But I—"
"No," she said, smacking him across the helmet with the back of her hand. "No more excuses."
"But I have never even lain with a Com-"
Kylendris' hands flew to his face, smacking his visor where his mouth would be as the heads of everyone present turned. Chariath raised an eyebrow, the first look of genuine emotion the stolid Syren produced during the entire conversation. It was bad enough to have a prudish reputation, but if word spread he was not native to the webway, he was as good as dead. The Wyches of the Cult alone would tear him apart just trying to get first dibs.
Chariath glared at him, her eyes a strange mix of curiosity and deadly seriousness. "You have never what?"
"Ah, nothing, my Syren," he said, desperately pulling himself to his feet on the balcony railing.
Grabbing him by the wrist, she led the diminutive pilot back inside. Kylendris stumbled to keep up with her as she marched past dozens of carousing Eldar in the main hallway too busy gossiping about the Craftworlders to notice his less than graceful appearance. As they entered the throne room, both of them stopped and looked around. Salendrid was gone, as was the spindly Haemonculus, Lady Arataire, and several of his Trueborn Dracons. His retinue of Incubi stood outside the door to his private chambers, forming a solid wall of armor and glaives which they menaced at any who ventured too near. Apparently the Archon wanted to waste no time in discussing this turn of events with his cohorts.
Glancing down at him once more, the Syren dragged Kylendris right towards the Incubi guards. At this he resisted and tried to wrench himself free, but his efforts were in vain. The Syren's grip was like iron, and her gloved hand easily reached halfway up his forearm. If Chariath noticed his struggles she gave no indication, and it was only at the brandishing of the Incubi's massive sword that she stopped.
"I have business with my Succubus," she said firmly.
"None may enter, Syren Chariath," an Incubus replied, matching her tone. "The Archon is in his war council and has ordered no disturbances."
Pausing a moment, she looked back and forth with exaggerated suspicion. "Does the Archon provide… accommodations for his guests?"
"Wait, what?!" Kylendris stuttered.
The Incubus who addressed her narrowed his eyes and looked down at him disapprovingly. "Yes," he said, "you will find them on the floor below, on the hall to the right."
"Thank you," she said, turning on her heels and dragging the pilot with her.
"The Archon would appreciate it if you kept the blood off the carpets," he said as she left.
"Of course," Chariath muttered, pulling Kylendris along as though he were a ragdoll.
With every step the pilot felt his heart beating faster and faster until he could swear he was choking on it. His tongue felt as dry as cotton as they rounded the corner and began the decent to the next floor. He wanted to say something, to beg for his life or bargain with his Syren to stop whatever it was she had planned but nothing came out but broken murmurs of "Please".
"This nonsense ends now, Kylendris," Chariath said as they approached the hallway the Incubus spoke of. Amongst the usual flourish of decorations were large doors leading to a variety of guestrooms. Judging by the changing décor of each entryway, he suspected every one held a different theme depending on the tastes of the guest. Chariath picked one that seemed to suit her. The banner of her Wych Cult was flaunted outside the door as though it were reserved just for the occasion. No doubt several Cult of Claws members had a standing arrangement with the Kabalites. Sparing him little dignity, she opened the door and threw him inside.
The guest chambers were as sensual as they were deadly. Hooks, chains, poisonous blades, and a variety of gladiatorial weapons hung on racks beside a large bed. Pegs were nailed into the walls for leather straps that hung from the ceiling to be cinched to. The floor was thick tile with sprawling carpets laid from the bed to the door, each woven from silken hair in elaborate designs. Chariath shut the door and locked it behind them, then turned to face her prey.
"M-my Syren, what do you intend to do?" Kylendris said, backing away as she entered the blood-colored glow of the wall sconces.
"Something I should have done long ago," she said, stepping towards the array of weaponry on the wall. She looked it over carefully before withdrawing a venom blade, its steel dripping with toxins Kylendris could only imagine. Running her finger along the blade, she grabbed a drop and slipped it under her breathing apparatus, tasting the concoction. Her eyes narrowed in a way he had never seen before, almost playfully. "Get on the bed, Kylendris."
The pilot moved towards the bed slowly, "My Syren, I beg of you, please d—"
Before he could finish his plea for mercy, the Syren had tackled him onto the bed like a lioness. In a flash he was pinned beneath her towering body, his chest being pressed into the soft mattress by her leg as she held the dagger to his neck, "Do not speak." He choked on his tongue, nodding desperately. Chariath smiled, "Now, let me see what is under this helmet."
As she lifted it off his head Kylendris' hands flew up, shoving it back down. This act of desperation won him an elbow to the chest and he gasped for air, clenching his ribs. His hands preoccupied, Chariath yanked the helmet away. Brown locks of tangled hair flew around his long, youthful face. This was not the porcelain skin of a Commorrite, which radiated a dark beauty when freshly nourished. It was a supple and natural youth from a body and soul only recently, or not yet entirely, consumed by the Dark City's taint. Chariath's eyes glowed. On his right cheek, bold and black as the day it was hewn, was the tattoo of a serpent.
"Saim-Hann…" she whispered. "Little pilot, you are full of surprises."
Kylendris grimaced as he coughed for air, his chest sore. Most knew he was a Trueborn, a few that he was wealthy, but no one before now knew of his true origins. While a Craftworlder living in Commorragh was not unheard of, the chances of them surviving for long were slim as they were easy marks. Lying on the bed, held firmly against the mattress, he felt the fear and apprehension slowly give way to indignation.
"Yes, yes now you know," he huskily said. "What are you going to do about it?"
Chariath shifted her weight, straddling the young male between her thighs, "Nothing."
"Nothing!?" he said, almost demanded, as he propped himself up.
"You serve my Cult dutifully and this explains all your curious tendencies." She brushed the hair from his face to get a better look at the tattoo. "I do not care about your origins, only your loyalty."
"So…" he glanced towards the door, "then I am free to go?"
Pressing him into the mattress with her hand, she leaned over him, "Not quite. Part of that loyalty is devotion to your Syren."
Chariath placed her blade under his flight suit and pulled it down, slicing the fabric wide open. Kylendris shuddered as his bare chest was exposed, the Syren tracing the blade around his slender form. Small red lines in the shape of the Cult's heraldry, a clawed circle, beaded wherever the dagger touched. The metal felt cool on his skin, but as the venom worked its way into the wound, he felt a fire run along every cut. Kylendris reeled beneath her, struggling to move away as she finished the design on his torso, the heat growing smoothly into a searing throb.
Kylendris groaned as the Syren leaned back to admire her handiwork. Dribbles of blood rolled off his chest and onto the sheets, staining the white satin. Unclasping the breather from her mouth, Chariath pulled it away. Her expression was stern, made even more imposing by an array of small tubes connecting to her neck and face. In spite of this, her skin was as supple as any Wych's, with full, purple lips and a slightly upturned nose. The small pilot ceased his flailing, the pain momentarily replaced with amazement. This was the first time he could remember seeing his Syren without her mask.
"Do not look… so surprised…" she said in a throaty voice. Pulling the seam on her wychsuit, the thin material shrank away, revealing her voluptuous figure as well as a grizzly looking scar above her left breast. It was round and sunken, as though a powerful weapon had shot straight through her. How she could have survived such a grievous wound he did not know, but he suspected it was a combination of drugs and sheer determination. Chariath's breathing grew more strained as she leaned down, licking the pilot's wounds clean and savoring the sweet taste of Craftworlder blood.
"My Syren, do not…" Kylendris could not finish before he felt his crotch firmly in her grasp. Wincing in pain, it was all he could do not to cry out as she forced his manhood against his hips with her palm. She was not gentle but at the same time, between the burning cuts, the feeling of her breasts teasing against his skin, and the sensual lapping of her tongue along his wounds, Kylendris felt exhilarated. He felt the blood rush to his head, his ears radiating heat as the first throbs of pleasure began to well in his length.
Brandishing the venom blade once more, Chariath ran it along the pilot's face. Tears welled in his eyes as the pain coursed through his long, sensitive ears. Already bright red, they now throbbed and ached from the heat. Blood ran down into his hair, matting it against the pillowcase as he snarled through gritted teeth. His heart pounded so hard he could feel it against his ribcage, as though he were willing it to explode. The Syren's lips danced around the edges of his neck, biting him here and there, drawing yet more succulent lifeblood for her to taste.
"Your pain… is exquisite, Kylendris," she said, now panting for air. Red streaks ran in dribbles down the sides of her mouth as she leaned over him for another bite.
Kylendris could not respond if he wanted to, his mind was overwhelmed with the agony the venom blade inflicted. Its toxins wrenched at his senses and he struggled to clear his vision of the tears welling in his eyes. Realizing this, the Syren began grinding him into the mattress, her vulva clearly visible through her tight wychsuit. Kylendris tried to push her away to give himself a moment to recuperate, but she laid her arm across his neck, forcing him down and choking him as she squeezed him between her thighs.
With a muffled gurgle the pilot frantically pulled at her arm, desperate to free his windpipe as she pulled down his form-fitting pants. Chariath released his throat long enough for her to remove what remained of her own garment, then pulled him start upright.
"Gods… oh gods the pain!" he shouted as she pressed his face against her bosom, his chest bleeding freely down his torso, "Why are you doing this!?"
The Syren ran her clawed fingernails through his hair, digging into his skin as she caressed him like a pet. Her other hand held the base of his skull in a death grip, forcing him to remain still as she saddled up. "Because, Kyle… I am a woman…" Her vagina slid along the pilot's growing cock, "And I have needs."
All Kylendris could manage was a slight yelp as the Syren forced him inside her, the slickness of her pussy making for easy entry. He was not a large man, and he could feel the laughter in her chest as she began to bob up and down, her hips grinding him further and further beneath her.
"What was it… you said?" Her breathing became coarse and labored as she romped on his cock but the enthusiasm never waned from her eyes. "Never lain with… *cough* a Commorrite?" Kylendris began to wonder if something was wrong with her until she leaned forward and grabbed him by the ears. The pilot shrieked in pain as his flesh seared anew, the passion only serving to intensify his natural sensitivity. The Syren rubbed and tugged at his still bleeding tips, the skin red just as much from his own blood as from the constant stimulation.
Instinctually he reached up and tried to pull her away but all that did was drive her on. Her breasts pressed against his face as she clamped down on his neck, drawing blood again while pounding him into the bed with her swaying hips. Squirming and moaning, the little pilot could only beg for his life. Her fangs held him in place as her hands gripped his ears, forcing him into the pillow, her orgasm building rapidly.
"Yes… scream for me…" she muttered. Her breathing was growing pained now, desperate. For a split second Kylendris wondered what might be wrong, but a moment later was reminded how perilous his situation was. Chariath reached for the venom blade once more, raising it in the air with one hand while holding his chest down with the other as if she were about to carve out his heart. Kylendris screamed, the blood-curdling terror-infused death cry of a man pinned to a bed and about to be skinned alive by a crazed gladiatrix. Were he Commorragh born and raised he might have felt shame in this, but in his fright he found his salvation. Kylendris was no psyker by Eldar standards, but he still held onto the natural psychic ability that all of his kind possess when not bred in the webway. Even as retarded as his spirit sight had become, the little Craftworlder's mind touched Chariath's. His fears, his passions, his desperate plea for mercy all resonated as his spirit momentarily glimpsed her own. It was all the Syren needed.
With a hoarse cry, Chariath doubled over in ecstasy, her orgasm wracking her body as though she were being electrocuted. Kylendris winced as the dagger fell from her hand, grazing his chest once more as it fell from the bed and clattered to the tile floor. It was all the Syren could do to keep herself upright as her pussy wrenched at the pilot's cock. Her toned abs trembled and her breathing came only in ragged, short bursts punctuated with a desperate gasp, each more high-pitched than the last. Kylendris tried to push her off but she held him tight, digging into his hips with her legs until her pleasure at last subsided.
With all the grace of a drunkard the Syren rolled off his lap and began flailing her arms around, desperately pawing through her clothes. Her breathing had become a constant hacking cough and he was sure she was in trouble. Still, considering the torment he endured, Kylendris found schadenfreude in her slow and frankly pathetic death. Alas, it was not to be. Chariath found her breather and stuck it in her mouth, nursing it with both hands and sucking in the air as a dying man in the desert might drink from a cup. Steam billowed from the vents as her chest heaved and slowed, the oxygen finally reaching her lungs. Regaining her composure, the Syren turned to him, the breather stuck in her mouth.
"That was something I never experienced before," she said with admiration.
Kylendris did not respond. He was still bleeding and the adrenaline was beginning to wear off, amplifying his pain.
"Such pain, such terror... it is intoxicating."
He leaned up a bit, careful not to aggravate the many cuts lining his chest, "You looked like you were about to die."
"So did you."
A chill ran through him when she said that, but the Syren rubbed her hand over the scar on her chest, "My lungs are not what they used to be."
Kylendris furrowed his brow, "That sounds dangerous for a gladiatrix, why not get that fixed?"
"That tattoo is dangerous in Commorragh, why not get it removed?"
His hand immediately flew to his cheek. Giving a slight nod, he reached for his pilot's helmet and held it in his lap. "I suppose I understand."
"No, you do not," she said flatly, rising above him though still on her knees. "You will never truly understand our prides and passions, what it is like to be a Commorrite."
He shuffled away, his back hitting the headboard, "I apologize, mistress—"
"Do not apologize." He could not see her lips for the breather but her eyes were smiling. "I will never understand your eccentricities nor your choice to come here. The difference is, my life does not depend on pretending I do."
"So… what are you going to do now?" he asked, the defiance just starting to creep back into his voice.
She sighed, the vapor rising from her breather in a cloud, "If they see your marking, my Wyches will kill you for your spirit stone, regardless of my orders."
"But I do not carry my spirit stone."
Chariath shrugged, "Then they would kill you because they are angry you do not have your spirit stone."
He raised his hands defeat, "That makes no sense!"
"Wyches are chosen for their brashness as much as their skill," she replied. "Regardless, you still require an escort. I cannot allow your allegiance to become a question."
"But you just said the other Wyches would kill me if they ever found out, which is what I said in the first place!" he cried. "How am I supposed to keep this a secret with them constantly watching me?"
She lowered her head slightly, "I shall watch you."
Kylendris stared at her blankly for a moment. Her skin shimmered with the sweat and heat of youth, rejuvenated now by his fear and pain, "Oh no…"
"You shall be my personal courtesan," she said, moving closer. "Anyone who touches you shall have to answer to me."
"My Syren, please, I d—"
She sprung upon him, the Wych suit dragging behind her as her tethered breather tugged it along. Kylendris tried to push her away but she caught him by the wrist, his other arm forced into the mattress. Helpless, he felt her grab his crotch once more, her fingers stroking his cooperative length. Chariath removed the breather and grinned, her fangs stained red with his own blood, "I shall have you all to myself." He tried to roll away but she held him fast, letting go of his hand and gripping his face. "And this," she said, running her thumb over the dark serpent, "shall be our secret."