On the other hand, some adult Drow force themselves on children because they are weak. It is a simple and terrible fact that an adult Drow is likely to survive an encounter with a child, whereas they might not survive an encounter with another adult of their race.
--Kismet's Dungeon, Drow Sensuality.
He did not belong here.
He was frail like old cob webs that broke under the great girth of arachnid?s weight. Bent low enough that he was nearly doubled over, in this grand bed chamber the young male did not fit at all. The Matron's bed was an atrocity that spanned the entire far wall of smooth, polished stone. Large enough to give comfort to several drow should she wish it, the mattress he spied through the thick of his lash was even several feet tall. Plush, vivid blood red silk licked its way tucked from one corner of the bed to the other. Sheets were draped across the bloated bed, shaped to look like giant spider. Its headboard and foot board were carved with great many jointed legs splayed outward in predatory and frozen spread. Red was splashed everywhere along with black within the room. It was rumored to be used by Matron Azoth, not because she favored the color, but because she took so many lovers and that so many of them died in her bed that she grew tired of having to replace everything. So she simply used the colors that blended well with spilled blood and blackening innards.
A desk, a mirror, several slumbering spiders and chained beasts took residence in the Matron's room as well. All of them seemed to look careless as well as cruelly on as Vharcan faced whatever horrid fate the female was thinking on serving him.
Books lined the walls, glittering coldly with spell-fire protection; tables were littered with knives and whips, magic hummed protectively from several places...Even the red gauze draped over the bed, partially hiding her form from his daring eyes hummed with protection glyphs along with wards.
Vharcan's mind raced even as his small shoulders felt like they would buckle under the weight of the room itself. Everything he looked at screamed power. There wasn't a safe place for him to put his eyes anyway, all of it built to remind other drow...especially males like him of their place. Everything--
"Boy," crooned the Matron behind the curtain. Vharcan's boney shoulders twitched.
He knew that sound.
Not yet a decade spent alive and he'd managed to surprise even himself truly. He hadn't expected to see himself breathing this long and the wagers taken and lost with the other boys of his House said the same. Constantly bullied, his food stolen from him or given doused with a myriad of poisoning just for fun, his work undermined, his chores--the care of the great lizards the men and women of his house rode tampered with to make it look like his fault--Vharcan's delicate body and even his health was against him; all expected to do him in one way or another.
Yet he survived. He survived by being far more cunning than his sister, his mother and his brothers. He survived by dousing his tongue in antidotes until he no longer tasted any food at all, but forced himself to eat it because if he did not? He'd starve. He forced himself to be one step ahead of his sister, whom already had tried to have him killed, twice. He managed to wiggle out of his sister's traps making sure to have it appear no more than luck. Smart enough already to recognize that should he be seen as far more clever than his twin sister, he would be killed.
Smart enough to recognize the drone in Matron Azoth?s voice. His cunning and intelligence was exactly how he had survived so long.
But at the moment of the Matron's croon, he was not entirely sure if he?d live much longer. He'd heard that sound before. The great lizards made the very same sweet song, tricking their prey into a false sense of calm before their great, slobbering, poisonous jaws came snapping down around their--
"Come here, boy." There was a roughness to the croon now, one that promised he would suffer later for taking the few seconds to hesitate between her first calling and the next.
Vharcan had no choice. He was born without a choice.
He drug his filthy bare feet forward. He was absolutely careful in avoiding the fine carpets, aware that his clothing was not much more than second hand-rags from a brother that had died earlier, hanging from his ribs. The boy was aware that his hair trailed along his hips in uneven chops--pulled, cut, and torn in many fights. The closer he got to the edge of the gauze covered bed the lower he pulled his head down. Until his brow very nearly touched the mattress itself. A male who enjoyed keeping his calesset kept his eyes to himself, never raising them to a female's. Ever.
He stopped at the edge of the bed and made no move closer or further, despite the trickle of cold sweat that itched between his shoulder blades. He heard the rustle of rich fabric he could only dream of its softness. The breath of hair trailing against silk and Matron Azoth's weight shifting as she sat and parted the gauze at the bed. Vharcan's vision was filled with the round of a slate-gray thigh. Impossibly smooth, impeccably maintained and utterly nude. He blinked.
Before he could even forget himself and speak, Matron Azoth's cruel fingers dug savagely into either sides of his cheek in iron grip, tugging the small boys face upward. Startled, Vharcan rolled his eyes downward--Lloth!--not that downward--maybe to the right, and focused, hard, on a spot upon the bed. The Matron pushed then pulled his face right to left as if he were a puppet for her amusement in addition to her inspection. Which, rightfully so, he was.
Matron Azoth did not see what Vharcan saw of himself. She paid no attention to the dirt. She saw a fragile little thing, of spun-glass limbs. She beheld a little male with wide, quivering doe-eyes with sinew starting to develop under long starved baby-fat, smelled the scrumptious fear that rolled from him in acrid waves. Azoth saw the sheen of finest purple in his skin beneath the dirt smears, a testament to his fine breeding and his nobility. She saw as a fine, pointed chin, high, delicate cheek bones and already perfectly arched white eyebrows.
Matron Azoth, who hated his mother?s House, saw Matron Charerel?s first born son, an opportunity. It was far easier to get a hold of the son than it was the daughter, after all.
Vharcan's shoulders twitched a second time as her cold hands clamped around his small arms, trapping them painfully within. In moments, they would bruise right down to the very bone.
"Such a pretty thing, boy. Such a delicate thing," Matron Azoth cooed again. Without helping it, Vharcan's eyes rolled in fear upward. The Matron leaned closer and closer, each inch she crossed toward his space felt like a lungful of his air she simply sucked from his body, strangling him slow. She blotted out everything, hovering over him as the dark away from the city's false light would--and her mouth when it suddenly grinned reminded him of smiling faces of the dead which promised he would soon dance his bones among them.
"Let me see if you bend or break," she murmured, tugging on his arms to bring him closer.
Vharcan Ssinjin knew of anger. He knew of vengeance. He knew of killing, of murder, or blood. He already knew of death, dislike, he even knew how to despise.
But he did not know of pure hate. The kind that roiled in the belly then burned the back of throat like bile. It bloomed right then, deep and fast within him as the cackling face of Matron Azoth hovered over him, sucking out all of the light within him.
The rape of Drow children is often avenged as an insult to the house the child belongs to, but that has more to do with house politics than any outrage on the child's behalf. Whether or not it is avenged, the incident is often blamed on the child if only because they were too slow and weak to defend themselves..
--Kismet's Dungeon, Drow Sensuality.
--Kismet's Dungeon, Drow Sensuality.
He did not belong here.
He was frail like old cob webs that broke under the great girth of arachnid?s weight. Bent low enough that he was nearly doubled over, in this grand bed chamber the young male did not fit at all. The Matron's bed was an atrocity that spanned the entire far wall of smooth, polished stone. Large enough to give comfort to several drow should she wish it, the mattress he spied through the thick of his lash was even several feet tall. Plush, vivid blood red silk licked its way tucked from one corner of the bed to the other. Sheets were draped across the bloated bed, shaped to look like giant spider. Its headboard and foot board were carved with great many jointed legs splayed outward in predatory and frozen spread. Red was splashed everywhere along with black within the room. It was rumored to be used by Matron Azoth, not because she favored the color, but because she took so many lovers and that so many of them died in her bed that she grew tired of having to replace everything. So she simply used the colors that blended well with spilled blood and blackening innards.
A desk, a mirror, several slumbering spiders and chained beasts took residence in the Matron's room as well. All of them seemed to look careless as well as cruelly on as Vharcan faced whatever horrid fate the female was thinking on serving him.
Books lined the walls, glittering coldly with spell-fire protection; tables were littered with knives and whips, magic hummed protectively from several places...Even the red gauze draped over the bed, partially hiding her form from his daring eyes hummed with protection glyphs along with wards.
Vharcan's mind raced even as his small shoulders felt like they would buckle under the weight of the room itself. Everything he looked at screamed power. There wasn't a safe place for him to put his eyes anyway, all of it built to remind other drow...especially males like him of their place. Everything--
"Boy," crooned the Matron behind the curtain. Vharcan's boney shoulders twitched.
He knew that sound.
Not yet a decade spent alive and he'd managed to surprise even himself truly. He hadn't expected to see himself breathing this long and the wagers taken and lost with the other boys of his House said the same. Constantly bullied, his food stolen from him or given doused with a myriad of poisoning just for fun, his work undermined, his chores--the care of the great lizards the men and women of his house rode tampered with to make it look like his fault--Vharcan's delicate body and even his health was against him; all expected to do him in one way or another.
Yet he survived. He survived by being far more cunning than his sister, his mother and his brothers. He survived by dousing his tongue in antidotes until he no longer tasted any food at all, but forced himself to eat it because if he did not? He'd starve. He forced himself to be one step ahead of his sister, whom already had tried to have him killed, twice. He managed to wiggle out of his sister's traps making sure to have it appear no more than luck. Smart enough already to recognize that should he be seen as far more clever than his twin sister, he would be killed.
Smart enough to recognize the drone in Matron Azoth?s voice. His cunning and intelligence was exactly how he had survived so long.
But at the moment of the Matron's croon, he was not entirely sure if he?d live much longer. He'd heard that sound before. The great lizards made the very same sweet song, tricking their prey into a false sense of calm before their great, slobbering, poisonous jaws came snapping down around their--
"Come here, boy." There was a roughness to the croon now, one that promised he would suffer later for taking the few seconds to hesitate between her first calling and the next.
Vharcan had no choice. He was born without a choice.
He drug his filthy bare feet forward. He was absolutely careful in avoiding the fine carpets, aware that his clothing was not much more than second hand-rags from a brother that had died earlier, hanging from his ribs. The boy was aware that his hair trailed along his hips in uneven chops--pulled, cut, and torn in many fights. The closer he got to the edge of the gauze covered bed the lower he pulled his head down. Until his brow very nearly touched the mattress itself. A male who enjoyed keeping his calesset kept his eyes to himself, never raising them to a female's. Ever.
He stopped at the edge of the bed and made no move closer or further, despite the trickle of cold sweat that itched between his shoulder blades. He heard the rustle of rich fabric he could only dream of its softness. The breath of hair trailing against silk and Matron Azoth's weight shifting as she sat and parted the gauze at the bed. Vharcan's vision was filled with the round of a slate-gray thigh. Impossibly smooth, impeccably maintained and utterly nude. He blinked.
Before he could even forget himself and speak, Matron Azoth's cruel fingers dug savagely into either sides of his cheek in iron grip, tugging the small boys face upward. Startled, Vharcan rolled his eyes downward--Lloth!--not that downward--maybe to the right, and focused, hard, on a spot upon the bed. The Matron pushed then pulled his face right to left as if he were a puppet for her amusement in addition to her inspection. Which, rightfully so, he was.
Matron Azoth did not see what Vharcan saw of himself. She paid no attention to the dirt. She saw a fragile little thing, of spun-glass limbs. She beheld a little male with wide, quivering doe-eyes with sinew starting to develop under long starved baby-fat, smelled the scrumptious fear that rolled from him in acrid waves. Azoth saw the sheen of finest purple in his skin beneath the dirt smears, a testament to his fine breeding and his nobility. She saw as a fine, pointed chin, high, delicate cheek bones and already perfectly arched white eyebrows.
Matron Azoth, who hated his mother?s House, saw Matron Charerel?s first born son, an opportunity. It was far easier to get a hold of the son than it was the daughter, after all.
Vharcan's shoulders twitched a second time as her cold hands clamped around his small arms, trapping them painfully within. In moments, they would bruise right down to the very bone.
"Such a pretty thing, boy. Such a delicate thing," Matron Azoth cooed again. Without helping it, Vharcan's eyes rolled in fear upward. The Matron leaned closer and closer, each inch she crossed toward his space felt like a lungful of his air she simply sucked from his body, strangling him slow. She blotted out everything, hovering over him as the dark away from the city's false light would--and her mouth when it suddenly grinned reminded him of smiling faces of the dead which promised he would soon dance his bones among them.
"Let me see if you bend or break," she murmured, tugging on his arms to bring him closer.
Vharcan Ssinjin knew of anger. He knew of vengeance. He knew of killing, of murder, or blood. He already knew of death, dislike, he even knew how to despise.
But he did not know of pure hate. The kind that roiled in the belly then burned the back of throat like bile. It bloomed right then, deep and fast within him as the cackling face of Matron Azoth hovered over him, sucking out all of the light within him.
The rape of Drow children is often avenged as an insult to the house the child belongs to, but that has more to do with house politics than any outrage on the child's behalf. Whether or not it is avenged, the incident is often blamed on the child if only because they were too slow and weak to defend themselves..
--Kismet's Dungeon, Drow Sensuality.