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A Reaper wandered into the gentle glen formed by the ruined walls of the elvhen structure, followed closely by a Necromancer.
This place, prior to the Dread Wolf’s tampering, had once been a resplendent hall with dining, dancing, and merriment - a front for the activities that occurred behind closed doors in secret chambers beneath the ground, watched over by the keen eyes of the ravens that faithfully flocked here day in and day out, their sharp blue tongues poised to share what they had seen - should the buyer be willing to pay the price.
Now it was silent and still as it crumbled privately, unseen and untouched for eons until the Watcher with her wisp of veilfire trailing behind her intruded upon its sacred ground, ignorant and barefaced despite her obvious parentage.
The ruin stirred: as silent and subtle as its namesake - a paltry ghost of what had once been majestic and godlike in matters of cleverness and skill.
The Reaper paused in front of a wall steeped in shadows, cracked and covered with vines.
“Oh, interesting,” she remarked, gazing at the section of the wall illuminated by the wisp. She fidgeted with the macabre helmet bearing the likeness of a skull that she held in her hands.
The Necromancer joined her, cocking his head to the side as he surveyed a masterpiece forgotten by time.
“Dirthamen, yes?” He ventured politely, eyes following the dirt encrusted lines of a magnificent elvhen being who posed with his hands clasped over his mouth. His eyes were shrouded - not to be looked upon by any who were not worthy - and a beautiful raven perched on his shoulder.
“I believe so,” she replied, her tone ignorantly casual and utterly absent of the reverence this place was due - she spoke as though she truly believed they were alone.
Alone, but for the singing of birds nearby - unintelligent peons when compared to the brilliant ravens that once frequented this place.
Alone, but for the warm, stagnant air that hung heavily around them.
Alone, but for the scent of young grass and freshly turned soil - a mockery of the acrid tang of strange substances and the stench of nervous sweat that reigned so long ago.
Alone…
Then they were kissing: embracing one another urgently in the stillness of the ruin, their sole witness the ancient and still likeness of the God of Secrets as he observed them from the sprawling mural, his discretion silently assured as the Necromancer and the Reaper slammed up against it.
The Necromancer tugged the Reaper’s helmet from her hand, dropping the ghoulish article in the soft grass at the same time as she yanked a dented, scratched buckler up over her shoulders and discarded it similarly.
Pallid but distinguished, the Necromancer dropped his staff and found the fluttering column of his lover’s neck with his lips. He sucked a deep violet mark into her flesh, and her hand flew to her mouth in blasphemous imitation of the lord of this place, though the muffled scream that stole through her fingers was an inadvertent offering, reverently bequeathed in the name of that which occurred in the shadows, hidden from traitorous, prying eyes…
The Necromancer’s hand vanished down the front of the Reaper’s pants, and he dragged her right to the very edge in mere seconds, his crafty fingers undoing her with nimble ease.
She cried out the Necromancer’s name— begged for him to fuck her, and he was nothing if not willing to acquiesce, for he kissed her deeply once more with a tenderness that contrasted bizarrely with the urgency of their entanglement until this point, and then he spun her slight frame so she was pressed against Dirthamen’s wall, her flushed face brushing up against cold stone.
She would have made a fine addition to the Venerated One’s flock - his unkindness - for she was pale and morose, with wide, wet eyes and hair that was so very like the dark, gleaming feathers of those most beloved and loyal servants…
They were too distracted by one another and didn’t mark the faintest whisper of sound and air that curled past their feet.
The Reaper’s ink-black hair fell over her face as The Necromancer buried himself inside of her in a single, deft stroke. He fucked up into her expertly, weaving gloved fingers into that perfect black hair, tilting her head back, and cradling her soft, ivory throat in his palm. He whispered lewd words to her - filth that dripped from his tongue, only heard by her, for the cacophony of skin meeting skin made it impossible for anyone else to overhear.
She laughed salaciously, meeting his thrusts and riding his length, her stormy hair jumping hypnotically in rhythm to their perverse dance as she asked if he’d pleasured himself at the thought of doing such a naughty thing with her.
The refined Necromancer proudly admitted that he had— no fewer than four times, in fact… and just as recently as the night before last if she cared to know.
At this, the Reaper cursed and moaned loudly, arching her back and deepening the angle of her Necromancer inside her. He pinned her flat against the wall under his lithe form, hushing her gently as he fucked her with abandon, one hand bracing her hip, the other finding her mouth, where he hooked two fingers past her kiss-swollen lips and encouraged her silence further, probing the cavern of her mouth, uttering soft praises the entire time.
She licked and nibbled at his fingers, whimpering quietly around them, but obediently following his instructions as he ravished her to climax: her eyes clenched tightly shut with the effort it took to hold back the scream of elation that yearned to tear from her as the Necromancer found his release too.
He groaned raggedly, his narrow hips stuttering wantonly against her as he spilled forth his seed and sagged against her, both of them resting against the wall as they breathed heavily in the assumed solitude of the ruin.
The Necromancer and the Reaper took brief minutes to catch their breath, sparing only the time it took to make themselves decent again: re-fastening clothing, straightening hems and buckles, and taming amorously tousled hair between coy smiles and satisfied sighs.
The Necromancer retrieved the Reaper’s buckler and helm and handed them to her before he stooped to pick up his staff from the mossy carpet, and they strolled from Dirthamen’s ruin hand-in-hand, sharing coquettish giggles when their eyes met, sly smiles playing in the corners of their mouths at their covert dalliance that was known only to them and the faint, whispered memory of an old and dying god.