Enjoy a longer bit of my current WIP that’ I’m grinding away on! About 3/4 way done with my first draft, but I’m excited to share a bit. I post about this frequently on Bluesky, and hope this will be my first piece with more directly erotic elements.`

Chapter 1: The Shade

The morning tasted of stale wine and bad decisions. Miz’ri Niranath woke as she always did: abruptly, with the chemical clarity of a Dark Elf physiology that refused to succumb to human poisons. There was no headache, no nausea—just the crushing, sterile realization that she was still here. Still on the surface. Still breathing air that smelled of unwashed livestock and dust. She untangled herself from the limbs of the human girl beside her. The girl was young, soft, and smelled like cheap lavender soap—a “toy” Miz had picked up at the tavern the night before because the silence in her own head had gotten too loud.

Miz wiped her arm where the girl’s skin had touched hers, a reflex of disgust that had nothing to do with hygiene and everything to do with self-loathing. Sticky. Fragile. I am a parasite feeding on sugar because I cannot stomach real meat. She rolled out of the narrow bed, her movements fluid and silent. She dressed quickly, pulling on the black canvas tunic, the heavy trousers, the red expensive leather gloves that were the only remnant of her former station. The weight of the Dulmaedan steel of her sword belt hanging at her hip acting as a momentary anchor in the drifting emptiness of her existence.

She paused by the bedside table, taking a moment to rummage through the sleeping girl’s purse. Tossing aside knicknacks in search of anything shiny, only finding a pittance of a bent silver coin at the bottom.  The girl’s purse now lay there, open and pathetic. Empty. Miz’ri had charmed the poor creature into paying for every drop of wine last night, and giving every drop she had. Miz didn’t leave a coin. She didn’t leave a note. She slipped out the door like a shadow that had never belonged there in the first place. A thief and a whore.  She chided herself internally. Mother would be so proud to see her bloodline reduced to petty larceny in a mud hut.

The sun was a malevolent god. The moment Miz’ri stepped out of the inn, the light struck her like a physical blow. It didn’t just illuminate. It scoured. It screamed. Even through the heavy, dark-glass goggles clamped over her eyes, the glare was a white-hot needle pressing into her brain. She pulled her veil tighter, but the fabric was thin, worn threadbare by months of travel. I am going to die here, she thought, the panic rising in her chest, familiar and cold. I am going to shrivel up and blow away like a dead leaf, and no one will even know to burn my body.

She forced herself to move. The market was a sensory assault. Donkeys brayed, merchants shouted in the guttural common tongue, and the smell of roasting meat mingled with the stench of manure. The townsfolk parted for her, mothers yanking sticky-faced children out of her path. They stared at her obsidian skin, her stark white hair, the lethal grace of her walk. They saw a monster, a predator from the dark reaches below come to steal their souls. Miz’ri kept her chin high, her hand resting casually on the pommel of her sword. She wore their fear like armor because it was the only protection she had left. Look at them. Terrified of a blind, sick dog. If I fall over now, they’ll pick my bones clean before I hit the dust.

She needed shade. Desperately. But the sun was at its zenith, shrinking the shadows to puddles around the buildings. The only respite she could find was a miserable, dying tree by the side of the main road. It had barely any leaves, casting a skeletal, net-like shadow that offered almost no relief. The poor dark elf huddled beneath it, pressing her back against the rough bark, trying to make herself small. She felt pathetic. She felt angry. And she was thirsty.

A small procession was making its way down the dusty road. At the lead was a young woman who looked entirely too soft for the harshness of the high noon sun. She was short, her stature lacking the lethal, wiry grace of an elf, and undeniably… plentiful. Behind her dark goggles, her eyes narrowed as she dissected the figure. The girl was drowning in layers of heavy, suffocating fabric—mourning blacks and deep, bruising purples that looked agonizing for the weather. It was a grim, gothic affectation, a performance of somber piety that clashed violently with the girl’s actual presence.

Because beneath the reaper’s robes, the girl was all round edges and yielding flesh. Miz’ri watched the way the heavy straps of the travois dug into the human girl’s shoulders, creating soft indents in the fabric. She noted the flush of heat on the girl’s round, full cheeks—not the sharp burn of a warrior, but the frantic, overheating pink of a child bundled in too many winter coats. She looked pudgy, vulnerable, a creature made of sugar and soft dough trying to survive in a kiln. And yet, absurdly, she wasn’t scowling. As she adjusted her grip on the travois, wiping sweat from her brow, there was a determined, almost cheerful set to her jaw. She looked like a grim little goth doll who had decided to be tragically optimistic about her own heatstroke. A marshmallow wrapped in funeral shrouds, Miz’ri thought, her lip curling with a mix of disdain and sudden, sharp hunger. Soft. Uncooked. One bite is all it’s gonna take. Deliciously pathetic.

Beside the girl walked an old man. He was bundled in a shapeless wool cloak and a wide-brimmed hat, leaning heavily on a gnarled staff. He moved with a pronounced, jerking limp—step, drag, step, drag. Miz’ri’s eyes narrowed behind her goggles. She didn’t see people. She saw utility. Specifically, she saw the old man’s thick, heavy cloak. It would make a perfect sun-shield. I deserve that shade more than he does, she reasoned, the predator waking up in her blood. He’s already half-dead; the sun won’t make much difference. She waited until they were almost abreast of her tree. Miz’ri stood up, smoothing her features into a mask of exotic, weary traveler charm.

“Good day,” she called out, pitching her voice low and sultry.

The girl jumped, nearly dropping the travois straps. She looked up, revealing a flushed face and round, kind eyes that widened in alarm. “Oh! Golly, uhm… good day, Madam,” the girl stammered. Her voice was soft, anxious.

She ignored her, moving instead toward the limping man. “Your grandfather looks ready to collapse. It is cruel to make him walk in such heat under that heavy wool. Let me relieve him of it. I can carry it for a mile or two.”

It was a clumsy con, but Miz was banking on the girl’s exhaustion. She reached out, her hand closing on the fabric of the old man’s cloak, intending to ‘help’ him and then simply walk away with it. Her fingers brushed against the arm beneath the wool. She froze. There was no heat. No give of muscle. No pulse of blood. Through the coarse fabric, she felt the unmistakable, rigid clatter of dry bone. She didn’t recoil. Instead, a spark of genuine, electric delight shot through her. She leaned in, ostensibly to steady him, and flipped the edge of the heavy cloak back. Ribs. Bleached, yellowed, and utterly devoid of flesh. 

“Well well, what have we here?” she said with a glint of playful malice, like a starving cat batting at a cornered mouse before the devouring comes. “So what’s a pious little mouse dragging a corpse across the countryside?” Oh, you are infinitely more interesting than last night’s conquest.

The girl let out a squeak of pure terror. She dropped the travois handles, the heavy trunk slamming into the dirt with a thud. She stood paralyzed, her hands flying to her mouth, waiting for the scream, the guards, the execution. “I can explain, I swear I can explain. He’s not bad, I promise! Don’t report me to the guards!”. 

Her gaze shifted from the skeleton to the trembling girl. She laughed—a sharp, jagged sound that startled a nearby crow. She let the cloak fall, settling it back over the bones. She took a step toward the girl, shedding the ‘weary traveler’ act like a snake shedding skin. “Do tell, what’s your excuse?” She didn’t draw her weapon; she just used her height, looming over the smaller woman until she blocked out the sun. The pudgy girl flinched at the closeness, her shoulders hiking up toward her ears. 

“I’m Talisa, an aspirant bonekeeper from Julisia,” she said, her voice wobbling but pitched with a frantic sort of dignity. She motioned to the skeleton man near her, “and this is my Pappy Herkel, We’re on pilgrimage. To Vigil, for his final rite.”

“Vigil,” Miz’ tasted the word. She knew of the Julisians. They were the industrious, morbid folk who used their ancestors to plow fields, mine coal and guard shops – and often the subject of undeserved hate equal to that of human hatred of anyone else that doesn’t look or act enough like them. “A long way to walk just to attend a bonfire.”

“Madam, It is more than a flame, it is my duty,” Talisa insisted, though she stumbled slightly as Miz’ri pressed closer. “It is a noble undertaking. To perform the Ritual of Finality and return him to the loving arms of Father Yuith and back into the great cycle.”

Miz’ri scoffed, the sound vibrating against Talisa’s spine. “Noble,” she mocked. She laid a gloved hand on Talisa’s shoulder. It wasn’t a comforting gesture but a claim. She felt the girl’s muscles seize up under her touch, felt the softness of the flesh beneath the heavy wool. “How convenient that your nobility requires you to act like a fugitive.”

“I am not a fugitive,” Talisa whispered in an assertive tone, though the way she refused to look at the passing travelers suggested otherwise. “I am staying true to the code of my people, the so-called laws of any land have little sway against the truth.”

With a proprietary squeeze on Talisa’s shoulder, the taller woman dug her thumb in. Just enough to be annoying, just enough to assert dominance. She could feel the sweat pooling underneath these heavy wool clothes, pulling at the fabric a bit to see the porcelain skin of her neck beneath. “If you say so, marshmallow.” Miz’ri said with a chuckle. She glanced at the skeleton. The ‘old man’ had turned his hooded head. The empty void of the cowl was fixed directly on Miz’ri. There were no eyes, no expression, but the judgment was palpable. It radiated off the bones like heat, a silent, rattling disapproval. “Aw, He doesn’t like me” she realized with a jolt of dark amusement. Even the dead disapprove of my hands. Get in line, old man. Miz’ri leaned closer, her lips brushing the shell of Talisa’s ear, ignoring the skeleton’s silent glare. “Does he talk? Or does he just rattle aggressively at people who annoy him?”

“He listens,” Talisa said, a hint of defensive steel entering her voice for the first time. “And he remembers, even remembers how to fight, protect me from harm.”

“Good to know.” Miz’ri smirked. She liked the fight. “Well, I have no love for guards,” Miz’ri purred, stepping closer, invading the girl’s personal space until she could smell the dust and lavender on her. “But I do have a problem. The sun is trying to kill me, and you have a very large, very dark shadow.” Miz’ri leaned down, bringing her face inches from the girl’s ear. “I won’t scream about what you’re dragging… if you let me walk in your shadow. Right there. Close enough to touch.”

Talisa nodded frantically. “Yes. Yes, of course. Please, stick close to me over here while I pull.” They set off again. But the dynamic had shifted entirely. Before, Talisa had been dragging a burden; now, she was being hunted by one. Miz’ri positioned herself directly in the girl’s shadow, effectively using Talisa as a human shield against the sun. It forced them into an absurd intimacy. To stay in the shade, Miz’ri had to walk practically on Talisa’s heels, her chest brushing the girl’s back with every step, her breath hot on the girl’s neck.

“So,” Miz’ri purred, the sound barely audible over the scrape of the travois. Her voice was pitched low, a dark, velvet counterpoint to the midday sounds. “The bones listen. And remember.”

Talisa’s back was rigid against the subtle pressure of the Dark. “He watches over me,” she said, attempting to sound steady, but the words were a breathy half-whisper. She clutched the travois straps so tightly her knuckles were white against the deep purple fabric.

“I can tell,” Miz’ri murmured, her gloved hand resting once more on Talisa’s shoulder. This time, it was a weight, an insidious, warm anchor. She let her fingers trail to the delicate curve of the girl’s neck, the expensive leather a harsh contrast to the soft skin there. “He’s practically glaring a hole in the back of my head.”

Talisa flinched, pulling her neck in like a turtle, trying desperately to distance herself without breaking her stride. “Please, Madam, my pace—I cannot slow down. Vigil is still many days’ walk and the nearest town is an hour away.”

Miz’ri scoffed, a low, dismissive sound. She pressed closer, bringing her head level with Talisa’s ear, allowing her body’s natural chill to brush against the girl’s overheated skin. “My name is Miz’ri. You may use it. Madam implies a respect you clearly don’t feel. And I don’t feel, either.”

“Miz’ri,” Talisa repeated, the name a small, nervous exhalation.”Got it.”

“Pace,” Miz’ri drawled, her breath ghosting across the downy hairs on the girl’s ear, a blatant violation of her personal space. “Such a determined little mouse. You’re trembling .” She gave Talisa’s shoulder a slight squeeze, just enough to feel the yielding flesh beneath the heavy cloth. “Is it the heat, or is it me, marshmallow?”

“It is my duty to my ancestors,” Talisa insisted, her voice gaining a desperate, frantic dignity. She fixed her gaze resolutely on the dusty path ahead, refusing to acknowledge the invasive presence behind her. “It is the Ritual of Finality. A noble undertaking.”

Miz’ri scoffed, the sound vibrating against Talisa’s spine. “Nobility requiring you to look over your shoulder every two steps? A pretty little heretic hauling a handsome skeleton across the high road.” She ran a single finger down the seam of Talisa’s heavy robe, from the shoulder blade to the small of her back. The touch was possessive, mapping the territory she was now claiming. “Don’t you ever feel like dropping your burden and running away to find a real fire? Something warm to the touch?” She couldn’t help but steal a squeeze on the poor girl’s rump. Talisa stumbled, the travois handles dipping momentarily. “I must not. I must fulfill my pledge. He depends on me.” She kept her head down. “He has been very patient.”

“Patient,” Miz’ri echoed, withdrawing her hand only to let her hip graze Talisa’s backside with a rhythmic, intentional press as they walked. The contact was brief, lingering, and unmistakably carnal. “I am not patient, Talisa. The sun makes me quite irritable. And impatient.”

She leaned in close again, her words a silken poison meant to corrode Talisa’s piety. “Tell me, when you finally get him to this ‘Vigil,’ do you just burn him and go home? Or do you get something in return for all this noble servitude?”

Talisa finally found a sliver of defiance. “I get the satisfaction of knowing I did my duty, and I find my place amongst my people.”

“Duty,” Miz’ri mocked with a soft laugh. “A cold meal for such a warm girl. What a waste.” She watched the hips sway under the heavy robes. The silence stretched, thick with the unsaid, the predator’s patience wearing thin. After an hour of awkwardly close walking they reached the outskirts of the next outpost sooner than Miz’ri would have liked. The buildings offered their own shade now, making Talisa’s shadow redundant.

Miz’ri peeled away, removing her hand from Talisa’s shoulder with a slow, lingering drag of leather against fabric. Talisa stumbled slightly, as if the sudden absence of weight threw her off balance. “This is where I leave you, Julisian,” she said, stepping into the cool alleyway shade.

Talisa turned, clutching her travois straps, looking relieved and terrified and confused all at once. “Thank you. For… for understanding.” Her face was all round kindness.

Miz’ri just nodded. She watched Talisa turn and hurry away toward the temple district, the heavy robes swishing around her. Miz’ri’s eyes dropped to the curve of the girl’s backside, tracking the movement with a hunger that had nothing to do with food. I will break her, Miz’ri thought, the thought cold and sharp as a diamond. I will crack that porcelain shell just to prove it’s empty inside. Her stomach growled, a loud, undignified roar that shattered the moment. The existential dread of the morning rushed back in, filling the space Talisa had occupied. 

Miz’ri turned back toward the market. She needed food, and more importantly wine. Good wine. Expensive wine. Get the bottle. Forget the girl. She started walking, but her hand still tingled where it had rested on the girl’s shoulder. But she did feel soft. Disgustingly, wonderfully soft…