Lead Underground.net: Uncanny Erotica

War­locks as a rule were a secre­tive group. Their spells, meth­ods and rit­u­als closely guarded from the out­side world. The pow­ers of demonic magic were not to be taken lightly, nor their respon­si­bil­ity handed to magic users who could not han­dle it. Cer­tain groups within the war­lock ranks were even more hard­core in accept­ing new ini­ti­ates. One of these such groups was The Broth­er­hood of the Skull.

This secre­tive sect of war­locks believed that the dark arts of demonic magic trumped the pow­ers of all other magic users and that war­locks would even­tu­ally be the rulers of the mate­r­ial world. Also they believed secrecy, tenacity,and throw­ing crazy keg par­ties once a month. For a new war­lock (or evily inclined arcade wiz­ard) to join the group they had to pledge their inten­tion and then, once they reached a cer­tain point in their train­ing, they were asked to offi­cially join the group through an ini­ti­a­tion. No out­siders knew what exactly this test was and none who had gone through it wished to speak of it. Only the most crazy and power hun­gry of war­locks would even think of join­ing The Broth­er­hood and of that group only a few were able to make it through the haz­ing. And in the past twenty years, no new mem­bers had been admitted.

“A prac­ti­tioner of the demonic arts must be ruth­less! You must be ready do what­ever it takes for power. This path of magic is not for the faint of heart or whin­ers. You must be pre­pared to do things oth­ers might find ‘evil’ or ‘deviant’ and be will­ing to sac­ri­fice every­thing at the drop of a hat should you have to. A war­lock must have a will of steel but you must remem­ber not to have too much pride as that will result in your most untimely and painful death.” An elderly gnome war­lock stood on top of a podium in front of a group of ten young Broth­er­hood hope­fuls, all dressed in black robes as dark as the shad­ows lurk­ing in the cor­ner of the cave in which they were gath­ered. The old magic user punc­tu­ated each state­ment by smack­ing his pipe on the wal­nut stand send­ing a resound­ing crack echo­ing through the cave. Many of the ini­ti­ates stand­ing in the group tended to twitch a lit­tle at the noise like scared chick­ens in a coop.

“The pow­ers of the demonic over­rule the petty squab­bing of the Horde and Alliance. All war­locks are on the same team and it is best you real­ize this. The ongo­ing ten­sion between the fac­tions is sim­ply an incon­ve­nience for those of us who walk the dark path. Are their any ques­tions so far?” The gnome’s voice was high pitched but raspy, as if he had spent most of his life yelling in bat­tle which was actu­ally the case. One stu­dent in the back raised his hand slowly and the hawk-like black eyes of the gnome focused on him.

“Yes?”

“Maybe you explained this before…but why exactly are we here? We’ve heard the whole ‘Wel­come to the Dark Arts 101′ speech before,” came a rich tenor voice from the stu­dent, a cer­tain obvi­ous tone of con­de­scen­sion clearly heard by the group. Those who had been through the cer­e­mony before knew that this proud stu­dent was about to get that sly smirk smacked right off of his pretty face.

“What is your name student?”

“Uh…Alvar Hrunt­ing sir.”

“Step for­ward and take off that hood.” The old war­lock stared down at the group of new ini­ti­ates as if watch­ing ants on the ground as he motioned with one wrin­kled hand. There was a shift­ing of many bod­ies and the hiss of whis­pers exchanged as Alvar pushed through the group to the front row, the hood of his black robe pulled down to reveal the obivous pointed ears and gleam­ing green eyes of a Blood­elf. He bowed before the mas­ter war­lock, his long golden hair falling for­ward to cover his face. Two older war­locks, the Gnome’s assis­tants, shook their heads and smirked at each other from the dark shad­ows of their hoods. They knew exactly what was com­ing; there was one smart ass in every class.

“Do you fig­ure he’ll use Curse of Agony this time? I always enjoy watch­ing that one…” the watcher on the left hissed to his companion.

“I do so love the screams. I bet you five gold that he passes out; those High Born are such pan­sies.” A hand shake was exchanged, the large green one of an orc cup­ping the rough brown one of a human before the two turned to watch the action.

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This is a really long 4 part story by my friend Resari about Swan and Resi’s con­test to see who’s the bet­ter lay with poor (or very lucky) Al stuck in the mid­dle! No need to read four dif­fer­ent chap­ters now, get it all in one page!

This story was writ­ten for me by Resari and she has given per­mis­sion to post it up here on the site as well as in its nor­mal home on DN. With­out fur­ther ado…read on.

A Con­test of Vixens

Swan and Resari the elf pal­adin bat­tle for the right to be called the hottest lover for Alvar.

An evening’s night out­side the town of Ratchet were nor­mally filled with many dif­fer­ent sounds; For one the rap­tors made a rukus when they hunted, sec­ondly the gob­lins were hardly quiet in their exper­i­ments, and third the nearby camp of a horde trainees had an almost ear­split­ting scream every night, some­times mul­ti­ple times a night. This night was no dif­fer­ent, the loud sounds echoed through the night air, how­ever the screams from the camp were not present. If the gob­lins of Ratchet had both­ered to lis­ten though they would prob­a­bly wel­come the lack of the sound from the camp, in which the inhab­i­tants were all sleep­ing quite soundly for once.

At one of the lesser oasis in the Bar­rens stood three elven fig­ures, the first was a woman of aver­age height and build for a blood elf female, she wore a black vest that had an low cut neck­line that seemed to be designed to show off her cleav­age more than any­thing else, and a dark red skirt that hung down to her knees, her feet were clad only in black shoes. She had pale skin and short blonde hair kept up in a pony­tail. Her green eyes were locked on the other woman, a night elf.

The night elf woman stood across from the blood elf woman, she was wear­ing a rather worn out set of leather armor with sev­eral mis­matched pieces here and there. The pieces of leather do not cover all of her skin or the var­i­ous scars of past bat­tles etched onto her. The woman’s peri­win­kle blue skin made the look work though. Her pearly white hair hang­ing from her shoul­ders as she stood with her hands on her hips and look­ing across to the other woman, her sil­very shim­mer­ing eyes meet­ing the green glow unblinkingly.

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This is a non-canon tan­gent writ­ten by my good buddy Resari

TAGS: Ten­ta­cle, Magic, Elf
RATING: R-X
Chap­ter One — Well, it could be worse
A hot day in Stran­glethorn Vale is like a cold one in Win­ter­spring, basic, bor­ing, and unin­ter­est­ing. How­ever dull it was though, the Deltas saw fit to send weapons trainer Resari out to scout inside a newly dis­cov­ered troll tem­ple. The tem­ple was found out by gob­lins from Booty Bay on a car­a­van run to the Grom’gol Out­post, and the Deltas thought it’d be a pos­si­ble loca­tion to run dun­geon train­ing sessions.

Of course they had to check around the tem­ple first to make sure it was able to be used for stuff like that, if there were any trolls inside the Deltas would have to go in and sweep them out, any traps would have to be made less lethal, and mon­ster nests needed to be removed right away. Since the newbs of the Delta Guild were prone to being ungodly … thick minded about things, all this needed to be done before word got out around the camp or the lead­ers would have to put up with con­stant moan­ing and groan­ing from the newbs about not being able to go right away, kind of like gnomes and toy stores. So Resari was sent, and she wasn’t happy about that at all.

(more…)