Chapter Text
You hate Sire Denathrius the moment you lay your eyes upon his high haughtiness giving a pretentious speech on the steps of the Grand Palisade of his castle. He seems a tyrant and an untrustworthy schemer. You bet your epic pants he knows more about this anima shortage than the other leaders, and that’s not to give praise to his spies.
There’s something peculiarly familiar about him though, something you can almost put your finger on but not quite.
It’s weird for a ruler of a torture realm that’s designed for humbling souls through shame and fear to sweet-talk nonsense about his respectable goals like he needed everyone’s votes. Maybe the facade makes handling the venthyr easier, although he doesn’t strike as someone who’d say no to violent crushing of opponents.
”I fear further sacrifices must be made if Revendreth is to survive this crisis.”
A cub can see through his lies. But what’s behind them?
You wait for him to finish the theatrics and try to figure out what it is that seems so familiar in his appearance. He has dark horns growing from his forehead like the draenei or, a more likely connection in his case, demons, and he obviously has hooves hidden in the expensive-looking red and golden footwear. His ears are elven or trollish. Silk and fur and unknown luxurious fabrics hug his tall, imposing figure. He’s huge, towering over anyone almost twice their height. His long silver-white hair falls on his half-bared chest like cascading silk, his red eyes burn with cunning and veiled malice under dark brows, and you can just feel power and anima oozing off him. A top tier asshole if ever you saw one – in other words, perfectly your type. Fuck.
The Lord Chamberlain introduces you like the fawning bootlicker he is, but you decide not to bow. As the Revendreth sovereign walks down the steps a knot starts forming in the pit of your stomach, wringing ever tighter as he approaches. His voice makes your toes curl and your thighs slick under your robe.
”Maw Walker,” he drawls, feigning politeness, ”I am aware of your urgent request for anima. Under normal circumstances, I would of course oblige.”
Does someone here actually believe him, or are they all under his thumb?
When you greet his most important courtiers, one of them, the Fearstalker, comments on the scent of your soul, lustfully eyeing you up and down. You see thin threads of anima seep from her intricate corset like her heart was burning. You doubt she has one, metaphorical or otherwise. The huge Sire lets out a soft chuckle in agreement behind you, and you fear they can somehow detect the wholly inappropriate craving growing in you. You tell yourself that they are long dead, probably forgotten the matters of the flesh.
Swollen, throbbing, juicy flesh.
The Fearstalker hums, watching as you turn towards the next noble, and you hear her whisper: ”Have you ever been truly humbled?”
You suppress a shiver, but another one slams through you hearing the changed tone in Sire Denathrius’ deep, velvety voice. He calls you by your name and beckons you back to him with a light gesture, thoroughly accustomed to everyone obeying him like mindless parts of a machine. Except cogs and wheels probably don’t experience such fear of being crushed. He sounds amused. You want to run. Or stab.
”Before I release you to assist the Lord Chamberlain with his little problem, there’s a small matter of protocol I need to discuss with you in private, Maw Walker. Come.” You cannot but follow, heart pounding madly.
He leads you to the throne room, gloomy and covered in red velvet and heaps of dribbled candles. With a nonchalant flick of his wrist he dismisses everyone from the room.
His courtesy drops off as soon as the last servant scuttles out the door leaving you two alone. He sits on the massive throne, spreads his thick, strong thighs in a manner that spells sovereignty and condescension, aaand hints that he might not be entirely indifferent towards carnality after all. His stare bores straight into your soul, or so it feels. You don’t know whether you should say something or just wait, and this sort of power play annoys the heck out of you. Gritting your teeth you silently count numbers backwards in Thalassian, trying to relax your overeager weapon hand. Finally Denathrius speaks, and you can see he enjoys your small-scale torment. Figures.
”Very peculiar. It must be because you are alive… I can smell all sorts of things off you, your anger and hate, for example, and ohh, your arrogance. That alone would earn you decades of whipping.”
His taloned fingers tap slowly on the armrest, contemplating, counting seconds that don’t apply here in the Shadowlands. Your eyes catch the black nails and you wonder, again, about the possible demonic connection.
”So, are we talking about my sins now? I thought only the dead were punished here.” Your throat is dry and your insides lurch thinking about him executing the penance on you. Your wrists and ankles shackled. Him with a silk cord whip, circling around you, letting the dread intensify slowly. And wearing much less than now. What the– where did that vision come from?
Denathrius laughs softly and the sound travels all the way down your spine and between your thighs.
”Oh no, you misunderstand. You are my guest and hopefully will become an ally in these uncertain times. I do need to correct your notion, we prefer to call it... education, what we do here. Fear and pain are merely tools for drawing out the repentance that is needed for the betterment of the most… difficult individuals. It is, after all, their last chance before the eternal torments of the Maw. It is our duty to do our worst.” He leans forward and watches you keenly. Oh, how you ache to smash a spiky iron hammer on that smug face.
”What intrigues me in you, mortal, is something we don’t consider a sin... That lust which seems to swell the longer you stand before me. It’s been a long, long time since anyone reacted that way to my might.”
You almost cry out in indignation and rage, but something he does, be it magic or just his cursed might in this realm, shuts your mouth. He continues his friendly, harmless, completely lovable chat.
“We have a serious drought here… but it clearly doesn’t affect you in the slightest. On the contrary–” and he casts his glowing eyes down your figure, “the anima and life in you is positively bursting, Maw Walker.”
Of course the silencing spell fails when a mortifyingly needy whimper leaps like an alarmed frog past your lips at the jolt of arousal piercing your core. Something has changed in him too and your body can detect it. He is thirsty.
“As I said, desire isn’t a sin in itself,” he chatters on, leaning back on the throne in an exaggeratingly relaxed manner. His words are like small caresses moving ever closer to the heat in you. “But if excess, and unsatisfied for too long, it can lead one into dark moods and bitterness that in turn open a way to sin.”
He’s going to say it, your libido rejoices. You tremble in fear, anger and want. Sire Denathrius reaches his huge hand towards you, inviting, gracious. Almost as if it were a purely selfless act on his part.
“Let me help you with that.”
You try to keep your dignity while your feet start taking the first steps up the throne platform without your full consent. His smile widens into a gleeful grin watching you struggle and lose.
“Pardon me, sire, but I don’t believe that’s necess–”
“Ssh. As a token of our liaison I shall ease your suffering – in a way I believe suits the proclivities of your mortal body. You should know I don’t usually partake so… personally, we have efficient methods for storing and distributing anima without the –” he gestures like shooing off an insect, “messy bodily contact.”
Oh for fuck’s sake, you conceited smooth-voiced son of an ogre, I’m not suffering, you lie to yourself inwardly since your voice has fled elsewhere again. He’s utterly loathsome, so full of himself no wonder that shirt can’t stay closed. But why, then, are you drooling? Torn with contradicting emotions and reasons you reach his seat. You’ve heard of hatelust, but this is something without earthly comparison. Your jaw aches for grimacing in distaste, yet your loins pulsate with a cosmic level need. What the Helheim is this?
He casts a short spell and you start floating upwards, your robe hems curling up your legs like lifted by unseen hands.
“Some of the venthyr enjoy such carnal frivolities. The Countess has even found a clever way of embedding some lechery into her penitence routines… And the Fearstalker loves to dominate her prey so much I sometimes suspect it brings her pleasure other than duty well done. Hmm, did I say prey? I meant guests, of course. Clients, even.”
When he inhales it paralyzes your lungs for a second, two – and then you give in. Every particle of your being, soul, spirit and flesh alike, feels like it’s being rubbed clean. With a spiked brush. Thin red ghostly ribbons start to flow from your body towards his chest, forming a weaved bridge between you and your torturer. You cry out, raw agony shredding you apart. Your erect nipples push against the coarse fabric of your tunic, every hair on your body stands on end.
Torturer? You meant benefactor, of course.
“Mmmm... You taste of violence, resentment… Ohh, do I spy a whiff of shame, Maw Walker? Just let it all out, don’t be shy now.”
What a perfectly killworthy bastard, you curse, penetrated by pain and painful arousal. You test the strength of his magic and try to rip yourself away, flailing in the air, groaning. Yeah, nope, he’s got you alright. He laughs below you, exposing his sharp fangs, entertained by the conflict within you.
“Ungh – you know, your protests are making your anima even tastier. All that delicious pride...” He licks his lips, and the sight of his tongue serves you a rare cocktail of dread and lust. He seems to detect that and the levitation spell changes.
You land on his upturned face crotch first, the magic keeping you afloat like you were hanging on ropes. His nails scrape your skin when he spreads your thighs and easily rips off your soaked underpants. A short wail escapes your throat but you cut it midway, still trying to maintain some decorum.
“I’ll suck that pride right off you, mortal. You will feel so much better without it burdening you.” While your anima seeps out from your barely resisting soul you feel his tongue lap slowly across your swollen sex, making you moan deep. There’s nothing to do but grab his horns for purchase and try to survive. He encloses your heat in his mouth and soon the pleasure quashes the pain of exsanguination. He’s clearly not a stranger to carnal delights – and even if he were it wouldn’t matter, in the state you are in you’d get off humping a dead tree.
You wantonly grind yourself against his face and his quiet laughter rumbles on your flesh like the most luxurious goblin-made vibrator. He hooks his fingers behind your knees and pushes his tongue inside you. By the Light, it’s thick and long like a cock, him being a giant compared to you. You groan, deliriously delighted. The stretch, the slithery warm wetness, his skillful thrusts rush you towards the impending climax. Denathrius gorges you like a succulent snack, anima and bodily fluids and all your sins.
”Fuck, yes, yes–”
Is it possible to die in the Shadowlands? You wonder, as the sensations overwhelm you and you start pulsating against the monstrous tongue. There’s nothing but the burning, brilliant bliss expanding from your core to every extreme. The world slips away.
“Exquisite,” you hear the harvester of your pride whisper lips against your flesh, and you know he has thoroughly humbled you.
You come to a moment later, knelt on the floor in front of his throne. Sire Denathrius wipes his mouth on his sleeve, visibly satisfied. The red in his eyes is flaming, replenished by your vibrant anima. Your anger and frustration are gone, your bloodlust thinned down to a memory of a tiny annoyance. You stand up, feeling sore and beaten, but also as light as a feather. Denathrius straightens his crown and smoothes down his glossy hair that you had messed up riding his face, and then glances at you dismissively.
“I’m convinced you will serve us well, Maw Walker. You are free to go now.”
You can’t think of anything to say, head purified from your usual sassy remarks. Whether it’s because of the absence of bad anima, or your pent-up desire having been satiated so very exhaustively, you aren’t sure. Probably both. Bowing quickly, you leave the castle and walk out the courtyard, towards the Lord Chamberlain’s tasks like a well-oiled little cog in the machine.
And then it hits you.
Dreadlords. Nathrezim.