Ilyanas Tomb of Doom


I danced with  Von Azchenberg, or “Karl” as he desired me call him. I danced even as those clawed hands began creeping to my waist and the great chainmailed curves of my vampyric body. “What are you doing,” I whisper and laugh as his fangs slowly crease my flesh with desire.

“I’m adding you to my stall of beauties. You will be my goddess.”

“No, no,” I advise, grabbing his knotted wrists, pulling them away from my buttocks. “I am already made. No amount of lust will tilt me from my line of descent.”

“You don’t know how beautiful you are,” Karl said, his voice soft, but ragged. “I apologize for my interest. We need you. Our last captain, black as our magics made him, crumbled under the weight of the agony.”

“So you tried to graduate a mortal to a fully vetted Black Captain?” I laughed.

“We were in…

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