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You were never one to sleep in, even on mornings where all you wanted to do was laze in the grass like a cat. You preferred to rise with the sun, if for no other reason, then for the sake of a moment to yourself before the rest of camp stirred. It was a little more difficult since you had settled into actual rooms at Elfsong, but you quickly managed to sniff out a quiet spot on the roof to greet the dawn with coffees and teas.
Today, though, the cramps had won. You were mildly panicked when you woke in the night to a bloody clot in your underwear and a thunderous ache clenching at your pelvis, until it clicked in your head. You cleaned yourself up, secured a thick rag in your fresh undergarments, and climbed back into bed to wallow in misery. It was your first period since the tadpole insertion, and the stress of, well, everything had screwed up your cycle so badly that your uterus apparently felt the need to put in some extra oomph to compensate.
It was Shadowheart who found you curled in your bed long after everybody else had dressed and ambled downstairs to seek breakfast in the tavern. She initially grumbled at you for not alerting her that you needed healing, but once you corrected her, her furrowed brow softened with sympathy.
“Well,” she sighed, “I suppose you have earned a rest, since you felled an undead king the other day and all.” She raised a stern finger, but spoke with a playful tone. “But just this once!” You laughed, and she slipped out with a gentle smile, promising to tell the others to give you the morning.
And so, off went your friends. Some went to follow up on a lead for the location of an unfortunate clown’s pelvis while the rest went on various errands of their own agenda. Before he left to once more try and negotiate his way into the forbidden book stash in Sorcerous Sundries, Gale charmed a long sock of dry corn kernels to act as a makeshift heating pad. They wouldn’t be gone for more than a few hours, but it brought the promise of a morning to yourself to move at your own pace. Within a half hour, you drifted back off with the sock draped over your lower belly and the dream of a proper hot bath.
You woke sprawled on your back, feeling heavy and sluggish. To your dismay, the heat in the sock had almost entirely diminished and what had originally been a relief now felt cumbersome – less like a sock of corn and more like a tepid dead eel plopped over your midriff. Frowning, you reached to push off the offensive sock and your hands collided with something fleshy and clammy. You quickly blinked yourself awake, and were greeted with a familiar pair of solid gray eyes less than a foot above your face. You startled with a loud gasp, and the woman straddling your waist split her lips into a smile suiting a jackal.
“The underling is a sound sleeper,” she cooed and slowly shook her head. “Unwise. Very unwise these days.”
You bucked your hips and tried to find purchase to push yourself up and knock her away, but she simply dropped deadweight onto your midriff, sending a jolt of pain up your belly and back. You yelped and flinched, and in a blink, she gripped your wrists in each hand to pin your arms to the bed.
She tutted. “Oh, but you are unwise, I see.”
“What the fuck are you doing here, Orin?” you spat. “I already agreed to help you. You swore immunity until we complete our end of the bargain!”
Orin released your wrists, and as you tensed your limbs to try again to buck her from you, she slid her dagger from her lower back. You froze, wide eyed.
“Oh, oh! The little lamb quakes in its sheets,” Orin mocked with an exaggerated brow. She cackled. “If I wanted to drip-drain you empty, little fool, you would be rotting in a gutter by now.” She ran a delicate finger along the edge of the blade. “You will not perish at my hand this morning. Lord Bhaal demands a grander masterpiece – your supple meat to become an exquisite effigy worthy of his honor. No, we must wait until our blades dance before the eyes of His faithful.”
Orin slid the dagger under the hem of your sleep shirt and pulled upward. The fabric pulled taut against your back, and with a chorus of tiny pops and snags, the steel ripped through and the halves of the shirt furled helplessly across your breaths.
“There are many hungry mouths begging to taste your drip-dripping from our sacred floors,” said Orin. “To waste your sticky-sweet obliteration in a common bed-slaughter where it would go unwitnessed by those who have craved such for a lick of your sinews…” She gasped, shuddering, and ground herself against your abdomen, a surge of cramping pain howling through your womb. “An affront,” she sighed.
You hissed in pain. “Then why –”
“I merely wished to observe the underling’s progress,” she interrupted, “and was snagged and snarled by a most curious perfume.” She wedged her face into your neck, burrowing her nose into you. "You are wreathed in crimson succulence,” she murmured and inhaled against you deeply, hungrily. “And yet, not that of the lordling." She licked a slow, breathy strip from your collarbone to your ear – hot, metallic. The hand without a dagger traced between your legs, and warmth pooled in your belly, curling through the haze of muscle ache.
“I am bewitched on your humors, lamb,” she whispered in your ear, making you shudder. “Now I must drink and drink and drink.”
She dragged the tip of her nose down your sternum. The hairs spanning your forearms and up your spine bristled at the ghostly touch, the softness of a shrike’s feather before impalement.
"Give yourself to me,” she hissed, “I will render your bed our loving abattoir.”
She bit down into your breast. Your pained cry urged her sharp incisors deeper into your soft flesh. Warmth bubbled to the surface, and a fat blood droplet rolled from a puncture down the curve of your ribs like an itching teardrop. Orin lapped across the wounds, eyes locked on yours, and she rose with her broad tongue slack from her lips, streaked in watery red. She curled it back into her mouth and her head tilted back slowly. She sighed dreamily, and swooped at your chest with bared teeth.
You yelped when her teeth dug into your tender, swelling skin, drawing streams of red that leaked under the corner of her lips. She sucked your bleeding breast into her mouth and released it with a wet pop. She lapped at the wounds as quickly as the blood replenished, smearing blunt ruddy streaks of saliva to crust across you. The curling rasp of her tongue numbed the pain in sweet, fleeting reprieves, only for the burn to throb again as soon as it passed.
The intact counterpart, she gently rolled and massaged between her fingers. Long nails teased the flesh but never pinched so tight as to penetrate. The nipple in her caress stiffened and flushed from the stimulation just as the one framed by her black lips seared and seethed in needly throbs. Your chest bloomed in arousal and agony, the two intertwining their cruel fingers to dig into your core as if they were her blade.
You rolled your hips underneath her, the pain of cramps long overshadowed. She straightened her back and grinned down at you, marbled skin flecked with splatters of drying blood and black lips ringed with rusty layers, thicker patches caught in the corners and rimming her teeth along the gums.
“Sweet plaything,” she crooned. “Patience, patience.”
She slid backward down your thigh, and with a sudden flick, sliced open the middle seam of your sleeping pants. She dropped her dagger to her side, and ripped the tear in your pants completely open. Another rip, and the snug press of your underwear and rag vanished. You wanted to protest the waste of so much clothing, but your body instead chose to open your legs, breath heavy and your pulse that of a hunted rabbit.
When she hooked her arms around your thighs and snaked her tongue into your cunt, you dug your head so firmly into your pillow that the sunbeams through your window blurred like water in your eyes. Orin’s nails dug into your leg muscle, leaving angry little crescents whenever she repositioned a finger. You relished the sting by now – almost wished that she was leaving puncture after puncture across your tender thighs. You wanted her to prick you where she pleased, to draw blood and drink you dizzy.
She curled her tongue inside of you, drawing it out in a luxuriously slow scrape and into her mouth. A whimper shuddered from her throat, and she licked a broad stripe between your labia. You pushed your hips toward her and she gripped you tighter, burrowing into you as deeply as she could. She angled your hips upward and with a pitchy growl, she rooted her face against your cunt in a fervor. Her sharp nose pressed against your clit, and you whined and ground yourself against her. The familiar tightness of a brewing orgasm coiled and pulsed within you, just out of reach.
She yanked her soiled face back, gasping for breath. She stared you down, and your heart fluttered under her glower. You had thought her beautiful the moment you first saw her deep underneath Moonrise, in the way that you would admire a viper and pray it never crossed your path. Strings of saliva, viscous with mucus and thickened blood dripped from her cheeks and snapped between your pussy and her lips. Her nimble tongue darted out to collect the clots and pooled blood in the corners of her mouth. Beautiful was not a worthy word for how she looked in that moment, with your blood painting her sharp chin and cheekbones and her upper lip curled in a snarl over her stained teeth. Orin was the embodiment of the horror nestled at the heart of desire; you trembled with fear under her hand, and yet you yearned to offer yourself as sacrifice to this feral and terrible goddess.
Her breathing steadied, and she descended again, this time wrapping her lips around your clit and sucking harshly. You bucked and whined, your nerves electric. The tip of her tongue flicked at the bud as she sucked, and you bit into your hand to stifle the noises clamoring to escape your chest. The coiling heat of earlier tightened in your belly until you ached. You dug your heels into the mattress. Orin gripped your thighs with possessive fury. She opened her mouth wide, and bit down into your mons pubis, tongue flattening against your clit, and you spilled over the edge, helpless squeaks and moans spilling from your throat, and your hips jerking in little erratic jolts against her mouth.
As you wound down, she lapped broad, thorough stripes to clean up as much spilled blood as she could taste. Orin lowered you back to the bed, her eyes hazier than usual. Without bothering to clean her face, she quietly slid from the bed and attached her dagger back to her clothing.
Orin slowly swiped her finger across her chin, collecting a large drip of clotted blood, and licked it away. “It seems my senses have been righted once more. A worthy sacrificial lamb indeed! You may find me in the temple once you have collected the little tyrant’s Netherstone.” She smiled, all teeth. “I look forward to basking in your brilliant crimson once more.” Before you had a chance to speak, she fiddled with her finger, and disappeared in a smattering of color.
You stared at the spot where Orin had stood seconds before, and blinked blankly, unsure of how to react. So, that was it? You couldn’t say you expected Orin to be the stay-and-cuddle type. Frankly, that sounded more dangerous than… whatever had just happened. You sighed and decided that you probably ought to take a bath and do something with your ruined clothes before your companions walked in.
You stood up, and when you saw the bed, you felt your face drain. In the whirl of everything, you hadn’t considered the bed, and sure enough, the blanket and sheet both looked like you had robbed them from a murder scene. You closed your eyes, and began to mentally prepare a cover story for asking a very uncomfortable Prestidigitation favor.