To facilitate Kara’s escape, Lady Vaylin Redbor unshackles her, leaves her to pace the cell. In the dark, the only thing in Kara’s head is the memory of Vaylin’s hard, muscled body, the tightness of her, which builds a burning need for the warlord to fuck the Lady again — on her terms, this time. Allies though they might be, she still wants Vaylin to understand Kara is, at the end of the day, a Goddess walking the Cradle, which means she’s in charge. She’s always in charge.
As the day — night? impossible to tell in the dark — drags on, and Maynier does not appear, Kara’s agitation only increases. Pissing in a bucket is one thing, but it’s the hunger that really gets her. If she doesn’t get something delicious in her soon, she’ll find a way to bend the bars and beeline for the castle kitchens.
Gods, Vaylin’s lucky she fucked me. Only reason to believe she’s my friend. I could do a lot of damage from inside her castle.
“Hello?” Kara calls out, bored, and desperate for something to antagonise. It’s maybe a minute of shouting down the echoing hallway before she realises that, indeed, Vaylin wasn’t lying when she said she threw her down here for the privacy.
Sensorily deprived and bored as all hell, a strange memory bubbles up from the tarpit of her mind, of a refined, gorgeous woman lecturing her — always lecturing her.
“You are not practised enough. You cannot do it. I am, and I can. It is the same principle as any other Evocation spell; you simply shape the energy into information rather than fire, ice, wind, or what have you.”
Certainly her basic Evocation skills aren’t good enough, but… well, why not try?
Next level, bump the magic, I think. A whirlwind could’ve bought me some time against Tyra.
If she’s to attempt complex Thought Projection, the obvious target is Maynier, who apparently needs a reminder to hurry the fuck up and bust into the castle dungeon — surely she won’t actually have to let Vaylin’s men drag her up onto the walls for Maynier to realise where she is. But then, an Evocation-wrapped message could make sure she knows.
Except Kara, so, so bored, is horny, and would rather antagonise than strategise. The cute priestess is so far away, so far, but Kara’s pretty sure they have some kind of strange connection, despite it all, and so as she closes her eyes it’s Elsa that comes to mind.
Elsa, who in the fantasy has finally gotten everything she thought she wanted — Kara is defeated, the goblins are gone, and Meadowbrook is once more set to rights. In her restored chapel she thunders, hands on the lectern, exulting the virtues of holy Thala, who liberated them from the green-skinned oppressors.
As the pretty older woman reaches a crescendo, her flock gasps. It is not, as she hoped, because a preached revelation has shattered their minds, but because Kara’s suddenly behind her, as if from nowhere. Elsa turns just in time to find those strong, muscled arms shoving her down, the huge cock that’s stretched her out twice now forced into her mouth.
“She can’t even deny herself,” Kara says, to the stunned congregation. “She just takes it like a good girl.”
Well, she probably won’t get that little message, but it’s fun to imagine anyway. So fun that her hand, blissfully free of shackles, dips into her breeches, frees her cock, and strokes. The fantasy alone was enough to bring her to her full length, and the boredom-piercing pleasure so overwhelms that she doesn’t hear the door open — with her eyes closed to immerse herself in the fantasy (to Kara, she’s really there, in the chapel, using Elsa’s throat), she doesn’t see the creeping light slip into the dungeon.
“The Lady’s sent- ugh, Gods. Savage.”
That gets her eyes open in a flash — it’s a pretty voice, one that seems to float above her, settles down on the ears like morning dew. Adjusting to the light, she at last makes out the gently swooping body of the tall woman, her long, pointed ears, and fine silver hair. An elf keysman? Or is she one of Vaylin’s close lieutenants, the only one she could trust with Kara?
The tray of stew in her arms is almost as enticing as the woman herself.
“I notice you’re not looking away,” Kara purrs.
“I am transfixed, yes, as one is when faced with true moral deprivation.”
Kara stalks towards her, hand still working, and presses against the bars. “What’s your name, gorgeous elf?”
“Silence. I am here merely to bring you sustenance.”
“And to fuel my fantasies. What’s under those leathers?”
The elf’s face twitches in an (affected?) look of disgust. “I said silence.” She pries her gaze away and sets the tray on the small iron shelf set into the bars, slides the latch back, and pushes it through. The whole time she stares at the tray, clearly afraid of what another glance at Kara might do to her — which works out well for the warlord, whose fluffy tail is small enough to fit through the bars and, though it lacks the strength of a limb, is sufficient for slipping through the frankly enormous keyring attached to the stranger’s belt and lifting it. The tinkling of keys clattering like windchimes snaps the elf to attention, but Kara’s hands shoot through the small opening and dig into her wrists. The tray careens to the floor, but that’s alright — she’ll have plenty to eat once she’s out of here. “Unhand me!”
“But I’d love to get to know you more. Don’t you wanna get to know me?”
The snaking tail retreats to Kara’s side. It’ll be a close run thing, getting the cell unlocked. She needs a hand to do it, and though luck’s always been on her side, what are the chances of finding the right key right away?
“The Lady said you are not to be harmed, but if you do not unhand me-”
“I want you.”
“Stop that.”
“I want you so bad.”
The elf looks away. It’s that moment Kara chooses, digging tighter into one wrist and releasing the other, cramming keys against the lock as the elf whacks at her hand. It’s the third that finally clicks.
Kara swings out of the door, forced to release her grip. The elf’s quicker than she thought, and as Kara comes face to face with her she finds a menacing dagger inches from her. “It’s okay; I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Back in the cell.”
“It’s real lonely in there.”
“Back.”
Kara tosses the keys — they arc clumsily through the air, carom off the back wall and settle at the far end of the cell. To her credit, the elf never takes her eyes off Kara, which is damn frustrating, because she wanted that moment to pounce. “Let’s have some fun, then you can lock me back up.”
“That’s enough.”
The stalemate hangs for a moment before the elf collapses to the ground. Behind her, Maynier stands, staff in hand. “Prophet! We must be swift — the garrison has raised the alarm.”
Oh, darling Maynier, with all the subtlety of a brick to the head. Had she not been expecting her, Kara would be pissed, but as it stands she’s just glad to get it over with. “Let’s go then.”
There’s no key for the heavy, arcane-nullifying collar around her neck — she spent hours feeling about for any kind of lock, any mechanism, but how the thing opens totally eluded her. She looks on the bright side: she doesn’t have to waste time picking up the keys.
Their escape is a frenetic but not dangerous flight. Maynier’s already got all the guards clubbed unconscious (thank fuck she didn’t kill any of them), so Kara need only run through the unguarded hallways behind the huge orc, admiring her follower’s excellent sense of direction — she’d be lost in these identical, twisting stone hallways.
They burst free of the castle and out onto the keep’s snarling stone walls. Maynier mounted her assault in the dead of night, it seems, which earns another note of approval; it’s exactly how Kara would’ve played it. Of course, if it were Kara in charge, their escape would not be soundtracked by the CLANG-CLANG-CLANG of the belltower’s alarm. “There they are!” someone shouts, from down in the courtyard.
Fucking hell. Just got my cool new horse and I’ve already lost it.
Arrows whiz by their heads as the two sprint across the walls. One spearman manages to interpose himself in their pass, but Maynier’s staff knocks him off his feet with one mighty swing. She reaches the edge of the wall, tosses the staff aside, and lifts Kara off her feet into a bridal carry that brings a genuine smile to the warlord’s face. “Good girl,” Kara says, and Maynier’s face blushes purple just before she leaps.
They land amidst a tangle of bushes, the bells receding into the distance as Maynier crashes through the forest, leaving a trail a mile wide but banking on just putting as much ground between them and their pursuers as possible.
“Maynier, stop.”
The orc practically skids to a halt, letting Kara spring from her arms. “It’s alright,” the cat says, “they won’t follow us any further. We’re going to do her dirty work.”