Rain came without warning—a sudden deluge that turned the sky to slate and the forest path into a quagmire. Thunder rolled overhead like distant war drums, lightning fracturing the gloom in brief, blinding flashes. The air shifted from humid stillness to charged fury, heavy with the sharp scent of ozone and wet earth. Droplets hammered leaves in relentless sheets, soaking through cloaks and gowns within moments, turning every step into a slick, sucking struggle against mud that clung greedily to boots.
Riven and Nyxara had ventured out alone this time—a rare solo quest for nocturnal reagents in the Stormveil Woods, ingredients that bloomed only under tempest skies. The guild board had listed it as moderate risk: shadowed glades prone to elemental surges, minor beasts drawn by the chaos. Nyxara had insisted, her amethyst eyes gleaming with arcane hunger. "The storm calls to the blooms," she had said, voice poetic as ever. "And perhaps to us."
He had accepted. The others remained in town—Thalira training recruits, Elowen buried in archives. Space to think. To plan.
Now, the storm forced intimacy.
They pressed on initially, cloaks drawn tight. Water cascaded from his hood, tracing cold paths down the mask's interior, pooling at his collar. Nyxara's gown—velvet chosen for its shadow-enhancing properties—soaked through quickly, molding to her voluptuous form like liquid night. The deep plunging neckline sagged heavier under the weight, revealing more of her porcelain cleavage as rain traced rivulets between her breasts. Fishnet stockings tore further on brambles, plush thighs glistening with moisture.
Lightning revealed beasts stirring—shadow wolves, eyes glowing ethereal blue, drawn by the elemental unrest. Three emerged from the underbrush first, low growls vibrating through the downpour, fur matted and dripping.
Riven positioned ahead. "Flanks. Bind the left."
Nyxara nodded, hands weaving—shadow tendrils erupting from the ground, inky and slick, coiling around the lead wolf's legs with wet snaps. It thrashed, jaws snapping inches from her, hot breath steaming in the rain.
The pack charged. Riven met the center one head-on—sword slashing in a wide arc that parted fur and flesh. Blood sprayed hot, mixing instantly with rain, the coppery scent sharp amid the petrichor. The wolf yelped, lunging despite the wound; claws raked his cloak, tearing fabric with a sharp rip. He twisted, blade thrusting upward under the jaw—crunch of bone, gurgling death rattle as it collapsed in a twitching heap.
The bound wolf broke free partially, leaping at Nyxara. She sidestepped, gown hampering movement, and summoned a shadow barrier—dark veil shimmering. Claws scraped across it, sparks of arcane energy crackling like miniature lightning.
Riven flanked it, sword piercing side—ribs cracking audibly, organs rupturing in a gush of hot viscera that steamed in the cold rain. The beast howled, whipping around; jaws clamped on his forearm guard, pressure immense, teeth grinding metal.
He drove his dagger into its eye—wet pop, fluid bursting warm across his glove. It released with a shudder, collapsing.
More emerged—five now, emboldened. Thunder masked their growls. They circled, opportunistic.
Nyxara channeled deeper—shadow spikes erupting in a ring, impaling two mid-leap. Blood jetted in dark fountains, bodies pinning to mud with squelching thuds. One spike missed; the wolf barreled into her, knocking her down.
She hit the ground hard, breath expelled in a gasp, gown splattering mud. The beast loomed, jaws wide—fangs dripping saliva and rain.
Riven was there. Sword severed a foreleg at the joint—bone shearing clean, blood pumping in rhythmic spurts. The wolf screamed, unbalanced. He followed with a downward cleave, splitting skull to sternum—brain matter and gore spilling in a steaming pile.
The survivors scattered into the storm, whimpering.
Breaths ragged, they stood amid the carnage. Rain washed blood from blades, diluting it pink in puddles. Nyxara rose shakily, body trembling from adrenaline and cold, gown utterly ruined—sheer and clinging, outlining every curve, nipples visible as slightly inverted peaks pressing against soaked velvet, coaxed faintly by the chill.
"A grotto—near," she panted, pointing through sheets of rain. "Shelter."
They reached it minutes later—a shallow cave mouth hidden behind vines, interior dry and echoing with the storm's muffled roar. Torch from his pack ignited with flint's spark, casting flickering orange light across damp stone walls veined with quartz.
Inside, space was intimate—barely room for two without proximity. Rain pounded outside like an endless barrage, wind howling through the entrance.
Nyxara shivered, wringing her gown. Water pooled at her feet, mud streaking porcelain skin. "The chill bites deep."
Riven removed his cloak, draping it over a rock to dry. Heat from exertion lingered, but the cave's stone leeched it away.
She stepped closer, body heat seeking his. "Your aura... wards the cold somewhat."
Their eyes met—hers searching the mask's depths. Tension built, slow and inevitable. Her hand rose tentatively, fingers tracing the ribbon still on his wrist from the groves—now soaked but intact.
"A binding," she whispered. "For luck. Perhaps... more."
The kiss began awkwardly—her initiative, lips tentative against the mask's edge where it met skin. Rain-flavored, plush and cold at first. She pressed bolder, finding his mouth beneath, tasting of spiced elixirs and storm.
He responded despite vows—hands gripping her waist, pulling her flush. Her body molded to his—soft, chilled curves yielding, large breasts compressing against his vest, nipples hardening through fabric as inverted peaks coaxed outward into taut dusky buds atop wide, pebbled areolas that crinkled under friction.
Breaths quickened. Hers hitched clumsily— uncertainty evident in trembling touches. She fumbled with his vest clasps, fingers quaking, exposing his scarred torso to the torch's warmth.
His hands roamed—delving soaked velvet, pinching those coaxed nipples into rigid peaks, eliciting gasps that echoed softly. Areolas flushed deeper crimson, contracting under his thumbs.
She moaned—awkward at first, then deeper—as he cupped lower, palm pressing her neat, compact mound through ruined gown. Puffy outer lips in soft pale pink swelled under pressure, parting slightly to reveal the tight, petal-like inner folds in deeper rose, already dripping clear nectar that soaked through fabric, humid heat radiating.
"Please," she begged, voice breaking poetic facade. "Bind me... as ritual demands."
Vines from her pouch—prepared for reagents—served. He looped them around her wrists at her urging, tying loosely to a stone outcrop. Restraint light but symbolic, her arms raised, body arching. Gown hiked, exposing plush thighs and the humid crevice of her thigh gap, slick trails snaking down pale inner skin.
Exploration intensified—his fingers delving, parting puffy petals. She quivered, tight channel clenching spasmodically around intrusions, gushing fluids in raw, awkward spurts that scented the cave with myrrh-musk and arousal. Breaths ragged, bodies sweat-slicked despite the rain's chill.
She sank lower, knees in mud-pooled stone, scarlet lips parting hesitantly for him. His shaft throbbed free—thick, veined. Her sucks were clumsy—tentative licks at first, tongue fumbling along length, saliva dribbling messily down chin and onto her heaving breasts. She took him deeper, gagging softly but persisting, amethyst eyes watering up at his mask, awkward rhythm building to desperate bobs.
Scents mingled—myrrh, musky nectar, salty precum. Echoes wet and obscene: slurps, gasps, vine creaks.
Climax neared for her—thighs trembling, fluids gushing in spurts as fingers worked her clenching core.
But he halted. Pulled back. Untied vines.
Her eyes pleaded—confused, needy.
"Vow holds," he said quietly.
She collapsed against him, trembling, body still quivering with denied release.
Outside, thunder faded. Storm passing.
But the craving lingered—taboo, unquenched.
Rank waited. Ascent continued.
Vespera remained distant.
For now.