Chapter Text
Marpenoth 1492
Brid stretched and massaged her hands, then took a seat on the lip of the fountain, next to her lute. She hadn’t played this particular square in the Lower City in years, and there was much more hustle and bustle—more people, more requests, more jeers, more boos—than she remembered. But, it was only mid-afternoon, and she had collected most of what she needed for her impending journey down to Candlekeep, so she gave herself permission to relax for a bit and watch the city folk move through their days.
Children laughed and splashed about in fountain, enjoying the last bit of warm weather before autumn truly arrived. The armorers in the nearby forge made pleasant, thunking beats on their anvils as they worked. The old wizard’s shop, Sorcerous Sundries, seemed to be enjoying more business than usual, with a steady flow of patrons the entire day. She thought for a moment, and vaguely recalled seeing something about new ownership in a broadsheet a few tendays ago. As she watched people come and go, one in particular caught her eye.
The man, a tiefling, walked with a purposeful stride, cutting deftly through the crowded square. He was tall, and even from a distance, appeared quite handsome; his dark auburn hair was loose and fell just past his shoulders, and his features cut a sharp profile. Even the more infernal parts of him were lovely, his horns sweeping back in an elegant curve, the tip of his tail flicking in a rhythmic way that matched his footsteps. He headed toward the entrance of Sorcerous Sundries, but paused before walking in, turning back as though he were looking for something. His face came into full view, his eyes catching Brid off guard—the irises were a bright yellow, only made more pronounced by the black that surrounded them. But as he faced into the afternoon light, his eyes seemed to ignite and glow, becoming tiny pieces of the sun they reflected.
Brid knew she was staring, but could not bring herself to care. She had never seen a living thing so beautiful in all her life, and felt a piercing, almost painful desire to put her hands on him, dig her nails in, take some piece of him for herself. She watched him turn again and head into the shop, an invisible tether that now connected them pulling her body in his direction. She leaned to follow him almost to the point of losing her balance, but settled back into her spot once he was out of sight.
Brid let out a long breath that she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, becoming aware that there was a little knot of heat in her stomach, and her heart was pounding in her chest. She had been planning on playing this square for only another day or two—folk were only generous with their gold for so long—but now, perhaps, a little extension wouldn’t hurt.
Brid laid in bed, one hand tucked under her head, the other resting on her belly, staring at the ceiling as she waited for sleep to take her. She could not get the tiefling from earlier out of her head, the image of his eyes in the sun burned into her mind. She wondered what he was like, how his voice sounded, how he would look underneath his clothes. She now closed her eyes, picturing his face, as she slid her hand between her legs.
She pressed two fingers to her clit, sighing in relief at the pressure, and imagined him turning those eyes on her as he kissed up the inside of her thigh, or ran his tongue over her nipple. Brid smiled, wondering if he was demanding or eager-to-please, how quickly she could break him, if he could be broken at all. His expression had been so serious, could she make him smile? Laugh? Did he like being teased, or did he want control?
She ached to move her fingers, to make up some name for the alluring stranger and moan it into the darkness, but it didn’t seem right. Once she learned more about him, that could be her reward; she could come with her mind full of his eyes, her mouth full of his name. She pulled her fingers away and pressed her thighs together, hoping tomorrow would be another sunny day.
Her third afternoon playing by the fountain, Brid noticed a tiefling watching her with curiosity while she took a short break. Not the tiefling from days earlier, but younger, and a woman. Brid gave her a courteous smile, then tilted her head and motioned to the spot next to her on the lip of the fountain. The woman returned her smile and came to sit.
“You seem awfully curious about a garden-variety bard, miss. Is there something I can do for you?” Brid asked, turning to give the woman her full attention. The woman laughed.
“I don’t know why I expected you to be rude, but I was very wrong,” she said, still smiling, “and it’s not what you can do for me, but what I can do for you. Lia, by the way.” She extended her hand.
“Brid,” she said, taking Lia’s hand and giving it a good shake, “I’m certain I’m the curious one now, what might you do for me if we’ve never spoken, or even met?”
“Well,” Lia began, her expression suddenly one of delight, “you’ve rather upset my older brother.”
Brid thought back over the last few days, a quick inspection of her time revealing—to her surprise—no one in particular she could remember angering. “What exactly have I done to this mystery brother?”
Lia motioned around to the square. “Exist in his space.”
“Oh!” Brid exclaimed after a loud laugh, “There is a king of this court whom I’ve so offended that he will not even deign to speak to me? He sends a beloved sister to do his dirty work?”
Lia grinned. “Oh, no no, he was the one who wanted to talk to you today, but my other brother and I think your music is quite nice, and we didn’t want him scaring you off permanently,” she said. She then appraised Brid for a moment, tapping her chin in thought. “But, if I had to guess, you seem like you’d enjoy if he took a swing at you.”
“I’ve been known to take joy in the occasional scrap,” Brid said, wondering idly how quickly he would become tongue-tied when a woman outwitted him, as all men inevitably did, and what sort of malice he would resort to when embarrassed, as all men inevitably did. “And how will I know when the king approaches?”
“If you see a tall, angry tiefling, gingery-brown hair, yellow eyes, and a hideous scowl come out of Sorcerous Sundries and storm toward you, that’ll be him.”
Brid’s brows raised in surprise. “Yellow eyes, you say?”
“Yellow in the middle, black round the outside,” Lia said. “I suppose others would find him a sort of handsome if he weren’t such an arse.”
A strange excitement bubbled up in Brid’s chest. “And what’s his name? Just so I may address His Grace properly.”
Lia gave a final laugh as she stood to go. “Rolan,” she said, then rolled her eyes. “Though he did just inherit the old wizard’s tower in the Upper City, so I’m sure calling him Master Rolan would get you on his good side.”
Brid gave a little wave as Lia turned toward Sorcerous Sundries, an unbidden smile spreading across her face. “Master Rolan,” she whispered to herself.
Brid’s fingers circled her clit at a leisurely pace, her other hand gently rubbing and pinching one of her nipples. She hummed in pleasure, closing her eyes and again summoning the image of Rolan looking into the sunlight.
“So you’re angry with me, Master Rolan,” she murmured to the dark. If he had a temper, how would he take it out on her? Fuck her roughly and claim her as his? Push her to the brink of climax over and over, until she sobbed and begged? Put his hands on her, spank her until she confessed what a wicked girl she was, and pleaded for forgiveness? She shivered, and her fingers on her clit sped up.
As images of Rolan bending her over a desk, or shoving his fingers in her mouth, or stroking himself as she spread her legs for him flitted through her mind, Brid contemplated how she would convince him to fuck her. She supposed she would have to talk to him to get the measure of him, but anger and frustration were a good place to start. A little twist of the knife here, the right lilted words there, and the trap would be set, she would only need to wait.
Brid bit her lip and slowed her fingers; she wanted desperately to come, but it still didn’t feel quite right. She needed his voice. She needed to be able to imagine how he would growl her name, or order her to kneel. She curled up on her side, hoping his temper was a short one, and drifted off to sleep.
“Has anyone ever told you how rude you are?” Rolan hissed into Brid’s ear once he’d caught up to her. On her fifth day in the square, he had—to her overwhelming excitement—stormed out of his shop as she’d finished playing, and glared at her for the entirety of her last song. When he’d confronted her, Rolan had thrown Brid for a slight loop by attempting courtesy, but it’d only taken a bit of commonplace rudeness to frustrate him. He now scurried after her across the square, attempting to salvage his pride with insults. Brid took a moment to wipe the delight off of her face before she responded.
“Oh yes, almost every day, but—” she stopped and peered at his face, trying to discern how much of a game he wanted to play; after walking a circle around him to test his patience, she deduced that he did not find any of this particularly amusing, which only made her more bold, “what a treat it is to hear out of that bonny mouth of yours.” That seemed to have done it—Rolan stared at her, his lips parted in genuine surprise, and she would have sworn the red of his cheeks was just a shade darker.
Brid waited another moment to see if he could summon up a retort, but nothing came, and she could not contain the guffaw that came out of her. Thinking their little repartee was over, feeling pleased with how it had gone, Brid began to slide past Rolan, when she was caught by her shoulder and spun around. She was now facing him, nearly chest to chest, as he clamped his open hand down on her other shoulder.
“I am the master of Ramazith’s Tower, and I am telling you: don’t come back here again,” he said, his voice low and fierce. Brid looked to each of his hands, then down between them—they were close enough that the hem of his robe brushed up against her legs. She struggled for a moment to keep her breath steady, a frantic wish coalescing in her mind for him to rip her clothes off and sink his pointed teeth into her. But she caught herself, made her eyes round, and gave him a mischievous look.
“Why, of course, master.” Brid delicately laid the trap out. “I’m so sorry, master.”
Rolan’s grip on her loosened ever so slightly, and she took her chance to slip away, giving him a dainty bow, the rope of the trap pulling tight as she moved. She folded her hands in humility and bit her lip as she straightened up, deeply pleased to see the look on his face—murderous, but with the tiniest bit of heat in his eyes. She forged on.
“What a naughty girl I’ve been, please don’t be too cross with me, master.”
The trap was set. Brid watched him for a moment, but Rolan was stock still aside from the slow, rhythmic movement of his tail. She wondered if he was trying the trick she’d seen other men do, but she pushed the thought from her mind with a grin. Before Rolan could try and wrangle her, Brid gave him a wink, and slipped away between some passersby.
Brid began kicking off her boots before she’d even closed the door to her flat. Once they were off and the door locked, she rushed to her bed, tearing off her clothes as she went, desperate to have something, anything, between her legs. She seized a pillow, folding it into a firm lump, before settling on her knees on her mattress. She shoved the pillow in between her thighs and, with a shaky sigh, ground her hips down into it.
Rolan could not have made her crave him more if he had planned it. His attitude and personality had been a predictable type of dreadful, but physically, he had been breathtaking up close. Everything others might call a flaw—every freckle, every wrinkle, every stray hair— had only served to make him more singular, to inflame her desire. She longed to comb her fingers through his hair, stroke a thumb over his cheek, feel his hands running up her body. His eyes had been just as mesmerizing as the first time she’d seen him, every shade of yellow they contained revealed when he had grabbed her and pulled her close. And gods, his voice; rich and commanding, the rolling of her hips sped up as she imagined him telling her to undress, get on her knees, and suck his cock.
Brid ripped the pillow out from between her legs and tossed it away, the broad friction no longer enough, and flung herself onto her back. She spread her legs wide and slid two of her fingers down between her folds, pressing them against her entrance. With a groan, she held them there, forcing herself to wait. This wasn’t what she wanted. She didn’t want a pale imitation of being fucked. She wanted Rolan’s cock, the sting of him stretching her cunt, however he would give it to her. And she would wait for it, she decided. However long it took, she would bear the emptiness she felt until she had what she wanted.
Sucking in a ragged breath, Brid moved her fingers back up to her clit, rubbing at a furious pace, ready to finally find her release. She was wound so tightly that she could not hold one fantasy in her mind, brief images of Rolan instead flicking by: his chest pressed against her back, his arms flexing as he restrained her, his lips parting in a deep moan as she teased his cock with her tongue. Brid’s muscles began to pull taut as she sprinted toward her climax, the images she saw blurring and becoming no more than fleeting impressions; desire, pain, obedience, control, bliss. All she could feel now was the heat of her pleasure, all she could see was a radiant shade of yellow.
His voice buzzed at the edge of her consciousness. Come for me, it whispered, come for me, sweet girl. It was as easy as falling, letting her orgasm claim her, a sharp crack of ecstasy forcing her to finally moan his name out loud. And it felt good; his name was well-suited to a rough voice in the throes of passion. Little tremors shot through her as she let herself drift through the end of her climax, her breath catching just a bit, relieved tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. As her heartbeat slowed, Brid felt her eyelids become heavy, and let herself slip off into a dreamy sleep.
“Oh-ho, is this then an offer of patronage? Does the master take an interest in the musician?” Brid asked in a bright voice.
The next morning, to her delight, Rolan had come to find her as she readied herself to play in the square. He seemed lighter, more loose, than when he had scolded her the day before, and while she had enjoyed his temper, Brid was pleased to have had something approaching a civil conversation with him. She was now working to reel him in, probing to see if she would be able to get him alone, his haughtiness presenting an enticing challenge.
“Patronage? Of course not. You may have attempted generosity, but your overall mulishness and incivility have certainly earned none in kind,” he said lazily, looking away from her to inspect the entrance of his shop. Brid pursed her lips reflexively, his response more harsh than she had anticipated. He looked back at her, curious, searching her face.
“But,” he began, his voice softer, “I could, perhaps, be persuaded to buy a thirsty bard a drink at the end of a long day.”
Her heart allowed itself the tiniest flutter, and Brid crossed her arms in front of her chest, as though Rolan might see. “I’ll have to find one of those, then.”
Rolan’s expression was inscrutable. “When you do, send them to me at the Elfsong, at sundown.”
That evening, Brid strolled into the Elfsong Tavern, hitching her lute up a bit on her back as she gazed around, looking for Rolan. For a moment, a foreign feeling of anxiety invaded her mind, telling her she was foolish for coming here, of course he wasn’t serious, she was far too eager, he could smell the desperation on her. But, as she leaned around a corner and saw a familiar tail poking out of a familiar set of robes, she gave her head a little shake, shooing the anxiety back into whatever void it had slithered out of. She was eager, verging on desperate, but there was no shame in that. Rolan was a staggering type of handsome, and his brutishness had receded enough that he seemed interested in her, so it was perfectly natural to want to pursue him, to want to know how he looked relieved of his clothing, to want to offer one’s mouth and cunt for him to use as he pleased.
Brid cleared her throat and smoothed out her shirt, then strode forward to the corner of the bar at which Rolan sat. He seemed to be lost in thought, rolling the stem of the cup in front of him between his fingers, and Brid couldn’t help but watch him for a moment before interrupting his reverie. He looked just as fine in the dim candlelight of the tavern as he had in the sun, the flickering light emphasizing his sharp features, and giving his eyes a more subtle, but deeper glow. She quietly closed the distance between them, giving the bar a few soft taps with her finger to draw his attention. It took him a few seconds to blink himself back to reality and turn to her; Brid thought she saw a flash of excitement cross his face.
“Afeared there were no other bards available for you to lavish with drink,” she said with a grin, “so hopefully my company is suitable.”
“I did say ‘a thirsty bard,’ so if you’re thirsty, I suppose I can’t object,” Rolan said, his tone the most affable she’d yet heard from him, motioning to the seat at his side. Brid slid onto the stool, swinging her lute off her shoulders to lean against the bar. Before it touched the ground, the barkeep, Alan, appeared in front of them.
“Hand it over, troublemaker.” He held out his hand expectantly.
“It’s just my fucking lute, Alan,” Brid said, holding her lute back behind her, hoping that Rolan would, at the very least, be entertained by the impending argument. “What do you think I’m going to do with it?”
“Try to break the house rules like you always do!” Alan leaned over the bar, still holding out his hand, his teeth gritted in frustration.
“Have you considered that rules are meant to be broken? Particularly when the old codger who wanted the rule has been dead for a hundred years?”
“I’m the old codger who wants the rule, now,” he said, unamused. “Give me the lute or you’ll get no service here.”
After a long, annoyed exhale, Brid allowed her lute to be removed from her custody, watching with a petulant glare as Alan hid it underneath a far section of the bar. He returned after pouring a cup of wine, setting it in front of her.
“The usual, dear patron,” Alan said with exaggerated deference. Brid crossed her arms in front of herself, her consternation hunching her shoulders over, then turned to Rolan. He had pressed his lips together to hide his smile—it had not worked—and was now staring at Brid with utter delight in his eyes.
“Out with it,” she snapped.
Rolan let his expression relax, grinning at her before he spoke. “I’m just very relieved to discover that finding you incessantly irritating does not seem to be a problem specific to me.”
“Oh, I’m so very glad you’ve found a brother in arms this evening, how joyous for you,” Brid said before taking a long swig of her drink. Rolan raised his cup to her in a little salute before taking a drink himself, then tilted his head a bit at her.
“What exactly have you done to upset him so much?” Rolan asked. Brid scowled at him before sighing.
“Alan’s mother bought this tavern from some old crank, who would only sell on the condition that he be allowed to hear the ghost here sing whenever he liked.”
“There’s a real ghost here?”
“Oh yes, on quieter days, or if you head upstairs, she’s all you’ll hear.” Brid rolled her eyes. “So, despite that man being long dead, because of him, no music is allowed to be played inside the Elfsong.” Her voice was rising against her will. “No bard is allowed to make a decent living playing the most popular tavern in the Lower City, Alan!”
“So you’ve tried to play inside the tavern?”
“What’s it to you?” Brid could feel herself getting too defensive, but as she watched Rolan, he didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he looked intrigued.
“It’s mostly nothing, but I do find it interesting how hard you strain against the most mild limitation on your artistic freedom,” Rolan said with a little smile.
“Perhaps I just don’t approve of men like you and Alan trying to snuff out the arts,” she shot back. Rolan gave an indignant scoff, and they fell into a fast, volleying discussion about the accessibility of knowledge and education in the city.
Before Brid knew it, an hour and several drinks had flown by. Rolan was a much more satisfying conversationalist than she had expected, and they had quickly begun chatting about their lives and interests, both current and past. Her original purpose for coming to meet him all but forgotten, she found herself listening with rapt attention as he told stories or argued a theory, and she was pleasantly surprised that Rolan took a sincere interest in everything she said, a bit of respect that no man—or anyone, she supposed—afforded her often. But, as much as Brid was enjoying herself, when their current drinks were drained, she gave Rolan a sidelong glance.
“I believe I’ve run up quite the tab when you only promised one drink,” she said, turning to face him. He raised his brows, the corners of his mouth turning up.
“And do you find yourself sated?”
Rolan put a weight behind the question that Brid did not miss, and she had to take a steadying breath before she answered.
“It’s odd, I’m still rather parched.”
Without pause, Rolan stood, walked around the bar to Alan, dropped a handful of gold of gold on the counter, and received Brid’s lute in exchange. He came back to where she sat, took her hand, and pulled her out of the tavern.
“And where might you be taking me?” Brid asked with a laugh as they rounded a corner. “And when might I have my lute back?”
Rolan stopped suddenly, turning to face her. The street they were on was dark, and even with her keen eyesight, the features of Rolan’s face had been obscured. Only Rolan’s eyes shone clearly in the darkness, bright and lovely and focused entirely on her.
“After seeing what you drink, I’ve decided you need an education in wine. I happen to have exceptional taste, and have accrued a decent collection of bottles at my tower.” He was still clutching her hand, and tugged her gently forward while taking a step toward her—they were now only a hairsbreadth apart. “I’d like to split a bottle with you.” Brid was entranced by his eyes; they filled her with a buzzing warmth that pooled so nicely in her belly and between her legs.
“And is that all?”
Seeing her invitation for what it was, Rolan dropped her hand to trail his fingertips along her jaw, then softly grabbed her chin. He angled her face up just so, like he might let their lips meet, but instead leaned in and murmured in her ear.
“No, I have a mind to learn you a great many things tonight.” He pressed her lute into her hand, watching as she swung it around to her back, then turned to lead her to their destination. But a shock of arousal had coursed through Brid’s body with such intensity that all she could do was seize his robes and pull him back.
“If you think,” she said, swallowing hard in the middle of her words, “that I will let you take me anywhere, go another step further with you, without you kissing me, you are as foolish—”
Brid was cut off by Rolan tangling his fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck and kissing her with a hunger so overpowering that she wished she could be devoured. Every cogent thought was neatly removed from her mind, pieces of Rolan flooding into every space they could find; the taste of his lips, still sweet from his wine, the pressure of his claws against her neck, the smell of his skin and clothes—something herbal mixed with citrus. She jerked on the front of his robes, wanting to be closer, to melt into him, but he pulled back, his firm grasp on her neck holding her in place.
“That’s quite enough.” Rolan’s composure was lost for a split second as his breath came in a sharp pant, but he recovered with a self-satisfied smile. “Have I paid the toll for our travel?”
Brid nodded, in a slight daze. Everything about Rolan seemed to be made to get under her skin, and with anyone else she would have chafed at being affected in such a way. But he was confident, surprisingly good-humored, and honest. She enjoyed knowing precisely what he thought of her at any given moment—even when he seemed to want nothing more than to banish her to another plane—and felt a little tingle of excitement at the idea of winning him over. Rolan once again took her hand, and pulled her into the deepening darkness.