Binding Serpent

From Anon, 1 Year ago, written in Plain Text.

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Aife pushed herself off the wet, fetid ground almost as soon as she had come to rest in it. Her joints screamed from the sudden impact that follows from one being thrown off their jetbike at max speed. Falling off your bike during practice in adolescence was one thing; coming unseated from it during battle was another. Being forcefully unseated due to your own squadmate was an entirely different universe from either of those.

In the distance, the sounds of a running battle ruptured and split the atmosphere several kilometers away. Her host was still harrying the mon’keigh’s convoy. Aife caught the whine of a lone bike rippling towards her, and the Wild Rider stumbled in its direction with a surprising lack of Eldar grace. The bike’s rider hopped off to meet her before it had come to a complete stop and Aife unlatched her helmet so he could see her anger-- empathic communication simply was not enough for this occasion. She would get in the first word. She always got the first word.

“Are you unhinged?!” the enraged Rider screamed. Her eyes stung and she was seeing red-- the blood they painted on their faces before battle was running into her eyes. “They killed Ruairi!” She had been a second away from slicing that mon’keigh gunner in half with her Shuriken Cannon when her jetbike had been knocked hard into a spinout. The bike hadn’t survived. Luckily, Eldar are better at tumbling.

“A half second more and you’d be dead too,” Cillian stated coldly, removing his helmet as a matter of respect. “It was naive to charge in like that. There was a lascannon aimed right at you. You should be thanking me.”

This damnable man! Khaela Mensha Khaine, working through her, forced her arm to bludgeon Cillian across the face with her helmet. The blow caught him unexpectedly, but her fellow Wild Rider rose from the mud exceptionally composed, never breaking his intense stare.

“I am tired of being watched over by you like I am some child!” Aife snapped, airing her real grievance. If only her father had sired more children. If only she was allowed to make her own choices. If only Cillian stopped protecting her-- she could live or die as she pleased!

“Then stop acting like one,” her companion replied, spitting blood onto the ground. It was an infantilizing statement from someone barely a hundred years older than her. His voice softened. “I don’t like this any more than you; but I have a duty to uphold.”

Her father had called on his lieutenants to come forth and swear a blood-oath to protect his only child whenever they rode in battle. Cillian had been the only one either foolish or loyal enough to step forth. Aife had been dealing with the repercussions of this for years now.

“Are you injured?” he asked. Aife knew what was coming next; he said it every time she was offended in some way while in her father’s presence. Her father loved it, and so Cillian continued to say it even when they were alone. This was partially because he too found it funny, but mostly because it made Aife throw a fit.

“Do you want me to kiss where it hurts?”

Aife threw herself at her squadmate, but there was more rage in her body than finesse, and the taller Wild Rider grabbed her by the wrist and tossed her down to wallow in the muck. Her ungainly attempt to rise only made her slip back, deeper into the sludge. This time, she stayed there. The greatest highs of being such an emotional species were easily matched by the lowest of the lows. Post-outrage clarity was sliding her down into the filth where she belonged.

“Once you have calmed down,” Cillian declared with no small amount of sorrow escaping, “we will grab Ruairi’s waystone.”

The lieutenant fastened his helmet back on and started towards his jetbike.

“And please, wear your War Mask so you will not go berserk next time. It is disrespectful to think you are above it-- we both just saw that you are not.”

-----

Victory Through Submission. When that phrase had first graced Aife’s mind during her morning meditation, it had seemed so straight forward, matter-of-fact. She had even smiled at the banality of it. While her divination through meditation yielded results nowhere close to what could be gleaned by those on the Path of the Seer, typically it was able to provide a modicum of illumination on the coming day. Yet those words were nothing new. Of course there was victory through submission-- the entire being of her Aspect was that very phrase.

Yet, she was becoming unsure of even that fact. The life of a Binding Serpent had been turning untenable. Unrewarding. Aife lit the day’s incense at the shrine’s altar of Khaine and performed her pre-practice stretches in silence. The Eldar couldn’t shake the feeling that this day would be much like the last two or three; really more like the past year. Her last student to leave, Cernach, had studied under her for a few years, but eventually he too felt the pull of another school, the Striking Scorpions. Was that what the Binding Serpents were destined to be? Always a stepping stone on the path to some other, more respected Aspect?

Aife thought it best not to dwell on it. For all she knew, a new student could walk in the door to the shrine at any moment. Why, it was only a few decades ago that this place was packed with the sounds of warriors drilling at any hour of the day. The Binding Serpent let herself be whisked away to those years as she swept the dust from the floor. Overhead, pieces of the wraithbone beams creaked, burgundy red flakes floating gracefully to the floor. Long, white curls of laminate were starting to peel off the walls-- she’d have to call the Bonesingers later. Taking the room in, Aife reflected on just how small the shrine was. The center of the dojo was barely enough to fit seven pairs of warriors comfortably during their evening sparring sessions. Had it always felt this mundane? Perhaps its occupants were always what lent it that air of respectability.

The Eldar brushed any wraithbone chips off her red uniform gi. Today was a day for action. Instead of the morning exercises, she would go out and find a student, maybe even two; that seemed attainable. Leaving the door to the shrine open to air it out, the warrior stepped out into the artificial dawn’s mist. As it normally went on Saim-Hann, the next living person on the Craftworld would be a mile or so away. She set off towards the nearest Aspect Shrine with a purpose. Dew sparkled on the leaves of the manicured trees. Even in a Craftworld known for its wild streak, an arcology dome’s forests were never left untended. The shriek of jetbikes far above gave the walk periodic punctuation. Even if she could find trainees for her shrine, would they even stay? She was no teacher like Amergin.

She still remembered the day her Exarch died. They had ridden at the front of the host, eager to taste the succulence of battle. The monkeigh ambush had turned that taste bittersweet. Though the seers had warned them, the chieftains dismissed their caution as weakness; others paid for that hubris in blood. Aife recalled when it was over: Clutching at the armor of her mentor, holding his helmet in her hands. She had hoped to feel anger, something that brought forth a drive to continue fighting. But the ancient thermoplas pieces only felt cold in her arms, the only emotion she could muster was profound loss. After she had taken over his duties at the shrine, its members bled away over many years, no Exarch to guide them. Aife never blamed them, because she had felt pale as well since his passing.

She finally came upon the temple after spending the rest of her stroll in a dreamwalk of the past. Outside, the shrine’s Howling Banshees sparred and practiced their swordsmanship in the cool breeze. Another cohort were gathering for a race up the Hill of Finbenach. Few regarded her as she advanced up the steps into the shrine proper. Inside, the dojo was lined by a ring of milky white wraithbone pillars holding up the vaulted ceiling. The domed skylight in the center was ringed by an unfinished fresco of Howling Banshees engaging in an orgy of battle. It was all rather humbling.

“Aife,” the Slagh Cille called out, the Exarch having already stalked across half the shrine upon seeing her enter. “I don’t assume you have decided to change Aspects?”

“No,” the Elder smiled, gracious for the sincere offer. “I’ve come because I--”

The Binding Serpent paused. Had she really come all this way just to burst into this Exarch’s shrine and ask if she could poach the matriarch’s warriors for her own selfish desires? What was she thinking? Slagh Cille stopped in front of her, towering over the Binding Serpent. Surely her armor’s boots must have been lifted?

“I came here to ask if, perhaps, you may be able to send some of your warriors over to my shrine for some time-- to train.” The request was not that odd-- those on the Path of the Warrior could learn much from studying all faces of Kaela Mensha Khaine.

“I see,” the Exarch replied, stopping for a second to observe a group of her trainees locked in mock combat now that the occasion revealed itself not to be urgent. “Walk with me, Serpent.”

The Banshee turned to make a circuit of the facilities, and Aife joined at her side as an equal. Having only a mind for war after her ascension to an Exarch, Slagh Cille did not seem to mind the social faux pas of being joined on her right side by someone her junior. Some of the other Banshees in the temple, however, could be caught giving Aife some nasty looks.

“So you are looking for some students of your own,” Slagh Cille wondered out loud. “To be forthcoming with you, I do not know if any of my trainees would want to halt their study here.”

The clear answer was appreciated, but deflating. Would this winter ever end?

“Thank you for your honesty, Exarch,” Aife sighed, finally succumbing to her nervous tick and straightening out the spirit-stone that was embedded in her choker. “I tried asking Amergin for guidance-- ran my hands over the waystones on his armor-- but there was no answer.”

The Howling Banshee consoled her as they approached the altar of Khaine. “Sometimes it can be difficult to reach the spirits.” Aife stopped a couple meters short of the curved steps up to the massive display. Piled at the font were the broken blades of countless power swords damaged in glorious battle, their psychic marrow having long since oozed out and pooled in the basin. The liquid twinkled and shimmered as though you were peering through a window into the cosmos.

Halfway up the steps, Slagh Cille offered a solution. “Maybe it would be best for you to arrange for a residency at a shrine on another Craftworld?” It wasn’t a bad suggestion. While Aife hadn’t heard from another Shrine of her Aspect for several years, surely one of them had room for another warrior? Living alone in her shrine’s rectory simply waiting for someone to show up was never going to work. Her considerations were interrupted by a commotion behind them. A squad of Banshees marched past Aife with an Eldar held between them, kicking him onto his knees at the base of the steps. Odd. He seemed rather familiar from behind.

“Exarch,” one of the apprehenders cried out, “we caught this man scrutinizing the temple grounds suspiciously.”

“He could be one of those Drukhari Wych spies!”

Aife had not heard of any Drukhari spies on Saim-Hann, but she figured if there were to be any they’d be spying on Howling Banshees.

“Off with his head!” another cheered, clearly overwhelmed by an uncommon bloodlust for this man in particular.

The Serpent divined that the situation was a little tense. From the armory, the squeal of metal on a whetstone reverbed as a male Banshee sharpened his blade menacingly. It was like she was watching one of those Biel-Tan mon’keigh execution holo-vids you’d see shared every once in a while over the communication-channels, except now she was a participant in the background. The warrior was going to offer to take the stranger off the Banshee’s hands, but the male spoke up first.

“Is this how you treat everyone who walks into your shrine?”

It was Cillian! She could recognize that level voice anywhere.

“I didn’t come here for you anyway,” Cillian continued, content to dig his own grave. “I was looking for the Binding Serpent.” With that comment he looked back at Aife expectedly.

“I know him,” she admitted, stopping short of a full-on endorsement as to not position herself too close to someone who had upset these Howling Banshees. “I can take him away from here, Exarch.”

Slagh Cille nodded in approval, giving a final dismissing nod to Cillian in particular. “Very well, Binding Serpent. He can be your problem.” The beheading squad that had formed in the excitement skulked away as Cillian joined Aife for their exit.

“Thank you,” he said as they cut the shortest path possible out of the temple. “I stopped at your shrine, but nobody was there.”

‘And why would you be looking for me?’ she wondered. The Eldar gave him a long stare as they stepped out into the courtyard, trying to scry what had led him here. She could guess what, but based on her circumstances any visitor was better than none, right?

“We can talk back there, then.”

-----

Cillian settled down on the training mat, swirling the dainty cup of tea that Aife had produced after they arrived. His hostess took a spot a meter across from him. Personally, he would have preferred a table between the two of them to set the tea down on, but comfort was not included for free on the Path of the Warrior.

“Let me guess,” the Binding Serpent spat out before her visitor could even get a sip in, “it was my father that sent you here, wasn’t it?” Cillian tried to hide that coy look he often put on when she was angry at him by taking a protracted slurp of the tea.

“How did you know?” he asked facetiously. While he was laughably easy to read, the Wild Rider was never necessarily stupid. How could she NOT know?

Aife readjusted herself slightly and continued. “Because that’s all you ever visit for. That’s all anyone in the clan visits for.” And not just him, especially him-- no matter where Aife went he always seemed to show up with a message from her father. By now she was convinced he pestered her by simple obligation.

“Your father cares deeply about you,” Cillian insisted. However, that was a line she had heard hundreds of times at this point so it did not sway her emotions nearly as much as some hoped it did. “You know he would visit himself if you let him.” The Eldar was correct about that; it was better that her father not visit at all. The last time that happened the shrine got a new dent in the wall.

The attempt at persuasion was maintained. “Your father will crystallize before you decide on your own to return. He wants to make sure you’re ready to assume leadership of the clan.” His arguments were as effective as the crack of a mon’keigh lasgun on mesh armor-- she only hardened when they hit her. Anyone who came was simply a mouthpiece for her dad.

“Aife, your poet friend from Iyanden just had a child! You two are the same age.”

That last one was thrown out as an aside, but she had not been readied for it. First of all-- was he pen-pals with her friend as well?! Off-balance, the warrior had to go on the offensive to stabilize herself.

“Cillian, my father knows that I bristle against the idea that I must live by his or anyone’s expectations.” The statement had been dulled by age, but was no less true now than it was long ago. “You know I’m not a good fit for politicking.”

“I can empathize with that,” he relented. Aife noticed the Wild Rider’s left ear fluttered slightly, as it often did when he was concerned about something. She’d seen it a lot from him throughout the years, mostly because she had grown to become a master of concern-causing. He probably didn’t realize he did it. She couldn’t be the only one who noticed it?

“I just don’t want you to get lost down the Path. Once you become an Exarch there’s no going back.”

“Only I can make that choice,” the Serpent reiterated. While his concern was appreciated, it was also frustrating. If her father had wanted to have a better successor, he should have had more children.

Just then, Cillian seemed to have an epiphany. “How about this? We spar--” he exclaimed, springing up, “-- and if I win you promise me you’ll return to the clan.”

Aife laughed at the thought. Sure, Cillian had trained as a Binding Serpent alongside her for some time (Had her father ordered him to follow her?), but it had also been many years since he last fought as one. Regardless, the Eldar did not appear to be backing down.

“Fine,” she relented, joining him on her feet. “But be prepared to tell my father he will never see his daughter again.” The Serpent swiped the tea cup from his hands and finished what was left in it. “Now, go grab a spare gi from the changing room.”

Cillian returned in record time sporting a blood red sparring uniform, pumping himself up for the coming battle and unphased by his odds of success. Aife sized her opponent up. Before, he had always held the advantage of superior reach over her, but now she had the advantage of superior experience-- years more of it.

“Prepared, Cillian?”

“I am as ready as I will ever be,” the Wild Rider replied, shaking out his arms and trying to warm up his muscles.

Despite the Eldar’s preternatural reaction speed, Cillian was still caught off guard when Aife charged him half a second after he had closed his mouth, wrapping her arms around his torso and slamming him into the ground. This was the ritual combat of the Binding Serpents; an unending stable of grapples and throws-- too many for one to master in a lifetime. The first warrior to faint or submit in this battle was the loser. It was already off to a bad start for the Wild Rider then, but old instincts were kicking in. The two wrestled and jockeyed for control on the mat, looking like a couple of snakes fighting-- or was it mating when they tangled together like this?

Aife managed to get him in a delicate situation, clamping her thighs around his head and pinning one of his arms against her torso. The Serpent grinned as he tried unsuccessfully to loosen her legs with his free arm. “Submit!” she urged him between breaths, the combat being as much a mental game at times as it was physical. It was of great glee to the warrior to watch her opponent gradually realize they had no more endurance left to escape. He should have known better to have left himself open to this-- the technique was positively elementary. The Binding Serpent built up further pressure on her catch’s head, constricting ever tighter.

Seeing no other course of action, Cillian promptly bit into the meat of his opponent’s thigh.

The pain caused Aife to yelp, and in her surprise, the Wild Rider was able to free himself and return to the incessant tumbling that was the hallmark of two combatants vying for control. ‘But that was a foul!’ the Serpent commiserated to herself, still shaken and recovering from the jolt. ‘Only a child would have done that!’ It was too late; she realized she was no longer attacking but reacting to his own moves as they tangled around. In her shock, Cillian hooked an arm around her neck in a chokehold, pushing Aife’s face into the mat. The Serpent tried in vain to wriggle herself out from underneath him, but it was no use-- it was as if his entire body was enveloping her, all his weight pinning her down.

A smarter Eldar (or one less prone to self-righteousness) may have done the wise thing before going into battle, and donned the mental War Mask that protected their hypersensitive race’s mind from the atrocities of battle and such meddlesome thoughts as ‘This purging is unethical,’ or ‘Did I -really- say that to him when we were alone at that gathering?’ Aife, however, was coming to terms with the fact that she had not worn her War Mask-- and it was a little too late to do so now. Instead of harnessing all of her expansive mental energy on figuring out a solution to her situation, the surprise of the sudden turn of events was making her mind run at a million kilometers per hour.

Now it was Cillians turn to call for her capitulation. “Submit!” he yelled, but the Eldar couldn’t hear him. His heavy breaths were tickling the nerve cluster on the tip of her ear, and the lack of oxygen was making the corners of her vision dark. She struggled helplessly against his mass-- had he always been this bulky? The muscles in his forearm tensed up against the side of her neck, the waystone on her choker feeling like it was vibrating, ready to accept her soul when she finally passed. And there was a third Serpent with them-- Aife felt it pressing up against her entrance as she fought for space, but it wasn’t the one doing the grinding-- it was her! She was wriggling down there like a worm! She opened her mouth to cry out against the encroaching darkness, and only a croak was coming out; air refused to come in. This was it. This was how she would join the Infinity Circuit. The Eldar involuntarily shivered, her muscles failing her. Just when the darkness seemed all-consuming, Aife came.

The Wild Rider loosened his grip and sat up on his knees behind her, astounded. “Are you alright?” he sniggered despite his genuine concern. The Eldar lay limp, huffing in the musty mat air like it was a sweet, fresh breeze. Of course she was alright! That was like asking someone who had just swallowed water the wrong way and was coughing if they were ‘alright’. It would be more concerning if they were -not- coughing! Aife tried to push herself up on shaky arms, glowering at Cillian.

“So,” he chuckled, “do you want me to bring you to your father like this, or--”

“That didn’t count,” she shot back, her voice husky. “You broke the rules.”

“Then you would rather this be a best-of-three?”

The Serpent launched herself at him (as best as one can launch themselves while on their knees), and the two re-engaged in their twisting of fates. This time, though, both parties seemed to be spent. Aife ended up on her opponent’s lap, pinning his wrists above his head on the floor. In the chaos, Cillian’s uniform top had come undone, baring his broad chest.

“You should have tightened your belt better,” the teacher panted. Instead of continuing the battle, however, the Eldar-- already distracted-- let her eyes wander down her prey’s chiseled figure to identify the hill she was currently perched on. The Wild Rider’s crown was poking out from his gi bottoms, a bead of pre forming on its tip. Somehow Aife was surprised by this. “Cillian!” she blustered. Her admonishment didn’t have much weight after what she had just done. Embarrassed, the Serpent let go of his wrists and backed up off his crotch.

“Maybe…” Cillian sheepishly suggested, as pink in the ears as Aife was, “Maybe we should postpone this fight until a later date?” He pulled his pants up and went to retie his jacket, but the damage was already done-- Aife couldn’t help but watch his bulge as she spoke.

“That may be for the best,” she agreed, instinctually moving to re-tighten her own belt-- but the action made her audibly yip. By Isha, her nipples were chafing against the gi’s fabric. This never happened!

Cillian’s left ear twitched, and he reached toward her. “Are you injured?” The Wild Rider eyed Aife despite her insistent nods that she was fine. She must have been showing through her top like a pair of star lances though, because he suppressed a smirk as he asked the next question. “Do you want me to kiss where it hurts?”

If Cillian had been better at psychically masking his emotions, then Aife would have been quite capable of rejecting his offer. However, stronger than the sexual urges (which Aife was certain she was accidentally letting slip as well) or the self-satisfaction of getting to use his favorite catchphrase, the Serpent could feel immense care for her well-being emanating from him. That, mixed with the touch of his hand on her thighs, gave her a warm, tingling feeling inside. Curse her father, he hadn’t sent one of his lieutenants, he had inadvertently sent some wicked daemon of seduction!

“Perhaps,” she murmured. If only he wasn’t so damnably honest. And loyal. And reliable. And persistent! Khaine’s blood, she had wanted to do this for a long while! The Serpent leaned forward and pressed her lips to his own, determined to be the kisser and not the kissed. Not expecting the attack, Cillian jerked his head back, but Aife followed and crawled on top of him, pushing him back onto the mat and planting her lips on his again.

“I didn’t think it was your mouth that hurt,” the Wild Rider gasped as Aife pulled back. His hands were already fiddling with her belt. She offered her assistance with that as they sat up, shrugging her jacket off her shoulders. Sure enough, her stubby pink lances were pointing immodestly outward. Cillian stopped his mouth an inch away from one of them, his breaths rousing an ache out of it.

“Stop that,” Aife scolded, pulling his head into her chest so he didn’t have a choice in the matter. Heavy breathing was an unfortunate habit for Eldar men to possess when their women were as ultra-sensory as they were. The Wild Rider kissed her prickling skin, migrating over to a breast with light pecks along the way. Taking a nub in his mouth, he alternated between sucking and biting on it, drawing out tasty little hoots from its owner. This was no good, though-- the stimulation only made them more sore.

“No, no…” the Serpent tried to pull his face away from that side, but all that accomplished was getting the other side attended to. “That’s enough,” she declared, a flick of his tongue causing her Webway portal to experience some psychic feedback simultaneously. “Quite enough!” Was this man even listening? Any attempt to pull him off and he doubled his effort. Aife gripped one of his ears and squeezed, causing the Eldar’s body to practically jump from the startle. She had his full attention now.

“Yes?”

He had confusion writ large on his face, like he had been so immersed in servicing her that he hadn’t heard her commands to stop. Aife was not entirely sold on that interpretation. She stared into his eyes disapprovingly, pondering her next move. Her panties had gotten damp (From her sweat, surely?) and the wet fabric on her lower soul-bead was driving her crazy. Cillian just sat there, content to hold her waist and stare back. The empathic waves he was failing to dampen caused the Serpent’s mind to soften. Enough thinking-- she deserved this!

Her hands fumbled around at his waistband, her mind moving too fast for the body to keep up. Picking up on the queue, the Wild Rider slid Aife’s own pair down her legs effortlessly. Sure enough, she was a mess down there. The two pivoted forward so the Serpent was on her back now, not that she had much of a choice as Cillian slipped her pants off her legs and over his shoulder, continuing on to free his own python which strained against its bonds. It slapped up against her mound, throbbing ever so slightly with a mind of its own. For some reason it looked bigger now that it was out.

Cillian leaned over her, resting an elbow against the mat and tussling her hair. He did that for a few seconds, then with his other hand, grabbed one of hers and locked fingers. He was taking his sweet time.

“You better not be thinking up something stupid to say, like ‘First one to come loses,’ or any nonsense like that.”

He shook his head no. There was hesitation in him, but Aife couldn’t scry what.

“Are you going to ask my father for permission? Go, idiot!-- But no ears.” It was a belief on Saim-Hann that only mating couples could go for the ears during sex-- some old superstition that Aife wasn’t about to break. The Serpent took his shaft in her hand and directed him to the right spot, not that it would have been difficult to find if you followed the heat. Measured, he inserted gingerly, his cockhead nudging the nerve endings on the underside of her clitoris as it pushed ever onwards. Over an eternity, his broadspear pierced forward, the speed at which he was entering seeming more impressively extraordinary than if he just… fucked her… regularly! When he finally reached the end Aife hoped he might speed up, but instead the retreat was as subdued as the attack. Isha’s Tears, it was like his girth was getting caught on every possible surface! The pair were both perspiring greater now than when they were fighting.

This agony continued for three more thrusts (if you would be so bold as to call them that), Cillian closing his eyes and breathing deeply the entire time. Aife was having no more of it. It was like she was hanging by a thread, her core tense and her breath held waiting for him to make her cum-- please! Finally, when he reached her opening again, putting that slightest bit of maddening pressure on her wound-up warp prism, the Binding Serpent snapped and wrapped a leg around his waist, jerking him in in one fell swoop.

Her partner cried out, his cock spasming inside her as he raced to remove it from her grippy clutches. In her defense, she was as surprised at this development as he was. There had barely been any foreplay, unless you counted their wrestling! The Wild Rider plopped out in a sweaty, sticky jumble and sprayed Aife with his Starcannon. Given the strength of Eldar’s muscles he left several long, thick strands of fate spanning her torso, one sacrilegiously painting the soul-stone on her neck pearly.

“For what purpose…?” Aife muttered, baffled. He could just have well let all of it loose inside, it wasn’t like she’d have gotten pregnant from a single deposit. Cillian finally opened his eyes, a disappointed, accommodating half-smile on his face. His juicy left ear trembled again. She might have to break her own rule…

“I wasn’t trying to--”

“Well I certainly was,” the Serpent interrupted. “I am not a Drukhari, I don’t get off from orgasm denial.” She pushed him off and they both rose to their knees. The danger of their situation caught up to her when she realized she had left the door to the shrine agape. She would never be able to show her face on the Craftworld ever again if someone walked in on her, the caretaker of the shrine, getting dicked down in broad daylight next to the altar of Khaine. Her heart skipped a beat even considering the possibility… “Let’s move this to the rectory, shall we?”

Aife herded her conquering into the small side room. Yes-- that was what he was. Her’s. Having lived so long in the mindset of eternal rebellion against the world (mostly just her lot in life), she’d been missing out on an ally. This would be her secret, then; he would be HER man, not her father’s.

The rectory stewed in a general state of disarray, her bedroll in the corner un-made, the wooden coffee table where she took her meals on the floor covered in last month’s news-slates. And-- Lileath’s Robes!-- was that a musky smell in the air? No, that was only his seed on her. She’d have to wipe that up before it dripped on the floormats. They were woven from rushes harvested in the Swamp of Inimitable Rage. She didn’t want to call the master craftsman again to treat an awkward stain; she was still trying to forget the last time.

The Binding Serpent had been so engrossed in the search for a clean towel that Cillian was able to sneak up from behind and wrap a hand around her shoulders. His Singing Spear pressed up against the small of her back. That was a quick recovery.

“I need to find a cloth, you shortsighted mon’keigh.”

But the simple fool wasn’t listening. He slipped his manhood between her legs and hugged her tighter, half-carrying and half-walking the Serpent over to the bedroll on her toes.

“You’ve surely gained a lot of confidence since your accident,” Aife taunted as he pushed her down onto her elbows and knees to mate like some base animal. His scepter rubbed toyingly along her lips, the sensation sending butterflies to her stomach. Cillian leaned over to an ear, surrounding her body with his own much like he had done before during their fight in the dojo. His rod slid in-- quickly this time-- filling her up with a satisfyingly slick shlorp as it claimed every inch of her canal, then adding a couple more. She hadn’t known her body was capable of producing that sound up until this point.

Cillian whispered mockingly against her eartip. “Well, the same could be said for you-- Daddy’s. Little. Princess.” Oh, he did NOT just say that! This was her shrine, and--

The Serpent’s protestations caught in her throat as Cillian began ramming his wraithbone spire into her in long, sloppy thrusts. Aife’s heart fluttered and her tiny Weeping Stone buzzed from the attention; each smack of his balls against it pushing her face further into the pillow. The Wild Rider shifted to her other ear, planting a kiss on what was available of her cheek.

“Sure have a lot of confidence for a girl who squirts from getting choked out.”

Aife was burning up, unsure as to whether it was her chagrin or her impotent rage from his teasing. Isha, she was getting ridden hard and messy like an adolescent training on the jetbike with something to prove, but she was the one gripping -his- throttle as he slid in and out. The bastard wrapped a thick arm around her chest and used the other one to tussle her hair like she was some child.

“Say you lost and I’ll let you come,” he huffed haltingly into her ear between slaps from his Fusion Gun.

“No!”

“Say you lost-- and I’ll let you-- come!”

“NO!”

If there was a single thing in life Aife refused to give up, even while getting folded into a quivering bundle of nerves, it was her indignation. Thankfully, she needn't give it up just yet, because the angle with which Cillian’s Swooping Cock was pounding her made the girl shed miserable, elfin moans. Kurnous’s Bow, did he ever let up? Any movement was labored-- if it was possible at all with him gripping her so tightly. Her lungs burned trying to keep up with ragged breaths filtered through the pillow case. Beads of sweat made their skin stick together like they were one disgusting, moist beast in heat. The heavy tap of his sack on her maidenhood beat out what remained of her dignity. The Serpent’s whole body was one tense spring from her fingers clenching the sheets to her toes curling into the air. He was crushing her! She was being crushed! Her spot was being crushed!

The final muscle to tense up, Aife’s cunt, pulsed and clenched wildly. Eldar being empaths, Cillian was not far behind when the psychic waves started crashing up against his mind, functionally collapsing over her as his rigid muscle bucked and swelled against its imprisonment. It let out no fewer bursts of sticky semen than it had previously, except this time deep inside her and with no hesitation. Both Eldar shuddered lightly from the exertion, grinding marginally where they connected in an unconscious yearning for more despite their organ’s immediate delicacy.

The Wild Rider shifted onto his side, dragging her with him to lay wrapped in his arms, burying his face in her mess of hair. She had been right earlier-- she did deserve this. It was only morning, but she could have spent the rest of the day like this soaking in his unguarded emotions.

“You can tell my father he doesn’t have to worry about me becoming an Exarch.”

Cillian shifted behind her. She sensed surprise.

“I think the fact there was ever a question as to whether I would do it means I simply am not made for that role.” Becoming an Exarch was one of those things where you either were one or you were not-- and if you were unsure that meant you were not; The Paths begged for surety the longer you walked along them. The thought was melancholy, but freeing.

“So, does that mean you’ll return to the clan? Walk down the Path of the Leader?”

Aife exhaled an amused sigh. “No, my father can-- what was the word you used?” The Serpent twisted in his arms and planted a kiss on Cillian’s cheek. “He can ‘crystallize’ for a little longer. But you might be able to convince me to come back earlier if you visit more often. Would I stay on the Path if I got pregnant?”

The Eldar had no immediate plans for that insinuation to come to fruition, but she hoped that by integrating his burgeoning loyalty to her with his unending loyalty to her father, he may one day not be able to distinguish the two. Regardless of what the scheming Serpent had in mind for her own rebellious reasons, she had managed to take their two tangled red yarns of fate and bind them into one muddled, unkempt knot.

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Aife pushed herself off the wet, fetid ground almost as soon as she had come to rest in it. Her joints screamed from the sudden impact that follows from one being thrown off their jetbike at max speed. Falling off your bike during practice in adolescence was one thing; coming unseated from it during battle was another. Being forcefully unseated due to your own squadmate was an entirely different universe from either of those.

In the distance, the sounds of a running battle ruptured and split the atmosphere several kilometers away. Her host was still harrying the mon’keigh’s convoy. Aife caught the whine of a lone bike rippling towards her, and the Wild Rider stumbled in its direction with a surprising lack of Eldar grace. The bike’s rider hopped off to meet her before it had come to a complete stop and Aife unlatched her helmet so he could see her anger-- empathic communication simply was not enough for this occasion. She would get in the first word. She always got the first word.

“Are you unhinged?!” the enraged Rider screamed. Her eyes stung and she was seeing red-- the blood they painted on their faces before battle was running into her eyes. “They killed Ruairi!” She had been a second away from slicing that mon’keigh gunner in half with her Shuriken Cannon when her jetbike had been knocked hard into a spinout. The bike hadn’t survived. Luckily, Eldar are better at tumbling.

“A half second more and you’d be dead too,” Cillian stated coldly, removing his helmet as a matter of respect. “It was naive to charge in like that. There was a lascannon aimed right at you. You should be thanking me.”

This damnable man! Khaela Mensha Khaine, working through her, forced her arm to bludgeon Cillian across the face with her helmet. The blow caught him unexpectedly, but her fellow Wild Rider rose from the mud exceptionally composed, never breaking his intense stare.

“I am tired of being watched over by you like I am some child!” Aife snapped, airing her real grievance. If only her father had sired more children. If only she was allowed to make her own choices. If only Cillian stopped protecting her-- she could live or die as she pleased!

“Then stop acting like one,” her companion replied, spitting blood onto the ground. It was an infantilizing statement from someone barely a hundred years older than her. His voice softened. “I don’t like this any more than you; but I have a duty to uphold.”

Her father had called on his lieutenants to come forth and swear a blood-oath to protect his only child whenever they rode in battle. Cillian had been the only one either foolish or loyal enough to step forth. Aife had been dealing with the repercussions of this for years now.

“Are you injured?” he asked. Aife knew what was coming next; he said it every time she was offended in some way while in her father’s presence. Her father loved it, and so Cillian continued to say it even when they were alone. This was partially because he too found it funny, but mostly because it made Aife throw a fit.

“Do you want me to kiss where it hurts?”

Aife threw herself at her squadmate, but there was more rage in her body than finesse, and the taller Wild Rider grabbed her by the wrist and tossed her down to wallow in the muck. Her ungainly attempt to rise only made her slip back, deeper into the sludge. This time, she stayed there. The greatest highs of being such an emotional species were easily matched by the lowest of the lows. Post-outrage clarity was sliding her down into the filth where she belonged.

“Once you have calmed down,” Cillian declared with no small amount of sorrow escaping, “we will grab Ruairi’s waystone.”

The lieutenant fastened his helmet back on and started towards his jetbike.

“And please, wear your War Mask so you will not go berserk next time. It is disrespectful to think you are above it-- we both just saw that you are not.”

-----

Victory Through Submission. When that phrase had first graced Aife’s mind during her morning meditation, it had seemed so straight forward, matter-of-fact. She had even smiled at the banality of it. While her divination through meditation yielded results nowhere close to what could be gleaned by those on the Path of the Seer, typically it was able to provide a modicum of illumination on the coming day. Yet those words were nothing new. Of course there was victory through submission-- the entire being of her Aspect was that very phrase.

Yet, she was becoming unsure of even that fact. The life of a Binding Serpent had been turning untenable. Unrewarding. Aife lit the day’s incense at the shrine’s altar of Khaine and performed her pre-practice stretches in silence. The Eldar couldn’t shake the feeling that this day would be much like the last two or three; really more like the past year. Her last student to leave, Cernach, had studied under her for a few years, but eventually he too felt the pull of another school, the Striking Scorpions. Was that what the Binding Serpents were destined to be? Always a stepping stone on the path to some other, more respected Aspect?

Aife thought it best not to dwell on it. For all she knew, a new student could walk in the door to the shrine at any moment. Why, it was only a few decades ago that this place was packed with the sounds of warriors drilling at any hour of the day. The Binding Serpent let herself be whisked away to those years as she swept the dust from the floor. Overhead, pieces of the wraithbone beams creaked, burgundy red flakes floating gracefully to the floor. Long, white curls of laminate were starting to peel off the walls-- she’d have to call the Bonesingers later. Taking the room in, Aife reflected on just how small the shrine was. The center of the dojo was barely enough to fit seven pairs of warriors comfortably during their evening sparring sessions. Had it always felt this mundane? Perhaps its occupants were always what lent it that air of respectability.

The Eldar brushed any wraithbone chips off her red uniform gi. Today was a day for action. Instead of the morning exercises, she would go out and find a student, maybe even two; that seemed attainable.  Leaving the door to the shrine open to air it out, the warrior stepped out into the artificial dawn’s mist. As it normally went on Saim-Hann, the next living person on the Craftworld would be a mile or so away. She set off towards the nearest Aspect Shrine with a purpose. Dew sparkled on the leaves of the manicured trees. Even in a Craftworld known for its wild streak, an arcology dome’s forests were never left untended. The shriek of jetbikes far above gave the walk periodic punctuation. Even if she could find trainees for her shrine, would they even stay? She was no teacher like Amergin.

She still remembered the day her Exarch died. They had ridden at the front of the host, eager to taste the succulence of battle. The monkeigh ambush had turned that taste bittersweet. Though the seers had warned them, the chieftains dismissed their caution as weakness; others paid for that hubris in blood. Aife recalled when it was over: Clutching at the armor of her mentor, holding his helmet in her hands. She had hoped to feel anger, something that brought forth a drive to continue fighting. But the ancient thermoplas pieces only felt cold in her arms, the only emotion she could muster was profound loss. After she had taken over his duties at the shrine, its members bled away over many years, no Exarch to guide them. Aife never blamed them, because she had felt pale as well since his passing.

She finally came upon the temple after spending the rest of her stroll in a dreamwalk of the past. Outside, the shrine’s Howling Banshees sparred and practiced their swordsmanship in the cool breeze. Another cohort were gathering for a race up the Hill of Finbenach. Few regarded her as she advanced up the steps into the shrine proper. Inside, the dojo was lined by a ring of milky white wraithbone pillars holding up the vaulted ceiling. The domed skylight in the center was ringed by an unfinished fresco of Howling Banshees engaging in an orgy of battle. It was all rather humbling.

“Aife,” the Slagh Cille called out, the Exarch having already stalked across half the shrine upon seeing her enter. “I don’t assume you have decided to change Aspects?”

“No,” the Elder smiled, gracious for the sincere offer. “I’ve come because I--”

The Binding Serpent paused. Had she really come all this way just to burst into this Exarch’s shrine and ask if she could poach the matriarch’s warriors for her own selfish desires? What was she thinking? Slagh Cille stopped in front of her, towering over the Binding Serpent. Surely her armor’s boots must have been lifted?

“I came here to ask if, perhaps, you may be able to send some of your warriors over to my shrine for some time-- to train.” The request was not that odd-- those on the Path of the Warrior could learn much from studying all faces of Kaela Mensha Khaine.

“I see,” the Exarch replied, stopping for a second to observe a group of her trainees locked in mock combat now that the occasion revealed itself not to be urgent. “Walk with me, Serpent.”

The Banshee turned to make a circuit of the facilities, and Aife joined at her side as an equal. Having only a mind for war after her ascension to an Exarch, Slagh Cille did not seem to mind the social faux pas of being joined on her right side by someone her junior. Some of the other Banshees in the temple, however, could be caught giving Aife some nasty looks.

“So you are looking for some students of your own,” Slagh Cille wondered out loud. “To be forthcoming with you, I do not know if any of my trainees would want to halt their study here.”

The clear answer was appreciated, but deflating. Would this winter ever end?

“Thank you for your honesty, Exarch,” Aife sighed, finally succumbing to her nervous tick and straightening out the spirit-stone that was embedded in her choker. “I tried asking Amergin for guidance-- ran my hands over the waystones on his armor-- but there was no answer.”

The Howling Banshee consoled her as they approached the altar of Khaine. “Sometimes it can be difficult to reach the spirits.” Aife stopped a couple meters short of the curved steps up to the massive display. Piled at the font were the broken blades of countless power swords damaged in glorious battle, their psychic marrow having long since oozed out and pooled in the basin. The liquid twinkled and shimmered as though you were peering through a window into the cosmos.

Halfway up the steps, Slagh Cille offered a solution. “Maybe it would be best for you to arrange for a residency at a shrine on another Craftworld?” It wasn’t a bad suggestion. While Aife hadn’t heard from another Shrine of her Aspect for several years, surely one of them had room for another warrior? Living alone in her shrine’s rectory simply waiting for someone to show up was never going to work. Her considerations were interrupted by a commotion behind them. A squad of Banshees marched past Aife with an Eldar held between them, kicking him onto his knees at the base of the steps. Odd. He seemed rather familiar from behind.

“Exarch,” one of the apprehenders cried out, “we caught this man scrutinizing the temple grounds suspiciously.”

“He could be one of those Drukhari Wych spies!”

Aife had not heard of any Drukhari spies on Saim-Hann, but she figured if there were to be any they’d be spying on Howling Banshees.

“Off with his head!” another cheered, clearly overwhelmed by an uncommon bloodlust for this man in particular.

The Serpent divined that the situation was a little tense. From the armory, the squeal of metal on a whetstone reverbed as a male Banshee sharpened his blade menacingly. It was like she was watching one of those Biel-Tan mon’keigh execution holo-vids you’d see shared every once in a while over the communication-channels, except now she was a participant in the background. The warrior was going to offer to take the stranger off the Banshee’s hands, but the male spoke up first.

“Is this how you treat everyone who walks into your shrine?”

It was Cillian! She could recognize that level voice anywhere.

“I didn’t come here for you anyway,” Cillian continued, content to dig his own grave. “I was looking for the Binding Serpent.” With that comment he looked back at Aife expectedly.

“I know him,” she admitted, stopping short of a full-on endorsement as to not position herself too close to someone who had upset these Howling Banshees. “I can take him away from here, Exarch.”

Slagh Cille nodded in approval, giving a final dismissing nod to Cillian in particular. “Very well, Binding Serpent. He can be your problem.” The beheading squad that had formed in the excitement skulked away as Cillian joined Aife for their exit.

“Thank you,” he said as they cut the shortest path possible out of the temple. “I stopped at your shrine, but nobody was there.”

‘And why would you be looking for me?’ she wondered. The Eldar gave him a long stare as they stepped out into the courtyard, trying to scry what had led him here. She could guess what, but based on her circumstances any visitor was better than none, right?

“We can talk back there, then.”

-----

Cillian settled down on the training mat, swirling the dainty cup of tea that Aife had produced after they arrived. His hostess took a spot a meter across from him. Personally, he would have preferred a table between the two of them to set the tea down on, but comfort was not included for free on the Path of the Warrior.

“Let me guess,” the Binding Serpent spat out before her visitor could even get a sip in, “it was my father that sent you here, wasn’t it?” Cillian tried to hide that coy look he often put on when she was angry at him by taking a protracted slurp of the tea.

“How did you know?” he asked facetiously. While he was laughably easy to read, the Wild Rider was never necessarily stupid. How could she NOT know?

Aife readjusted herself slightly and continued. “Because that’s all you ever visit for. That’s all anyone in the clan visits for.” And not just him, especially him-- no matter where Aife went he always seemed to show up with a message from her father. By now she was convinced he pestered her by simple obligation.

“Your father cares deeply about you,” Cillian insisted. However, that was a line she had heard hundreds of times at this point so it did not sway her emotions nearly as much as some hoped it did. “You know he would visit himself if you let him.” The Eldar was correct about that; it was better that her father not visit at all. The last time that happened the shrine got a new dent in the wall.

The attempt at persuasion was maintained. “Your father will crystallize before you decide on your own to return. He wants to make sure you’re ready to assume leadership of the clan.” His arguments were as effective as the crack of a mon’keigh lasgun on mesh armor-- she only hardened when they hit her. Anyone who came was simply a mouthpiece for her dad.

“Aife, your poet friend from Iyanden just had a child! You two are the same age.”

That last one was thrown out as an aside, but she had not been readied for it. First of all-- was he pen-pals with her friend as well?! Off-balance, the warrior had to go on the offensive to stabilize herself.

“Cillian, my father knows that I bristle against the idea that I must live by his or anyone’s expectations.” The statement had been dulled by age, but was no less true now than it was long ago. “You know I’m not a good fit for politicking.”

“I can empathize with that,” he relented. Aife noticed the Wild Rider’s left ear fluttered slightly, as it often did when he was concerned about something. She’d seen it a lot from him throughout the years, mostly because she had grown to become a master of concern-causing. He probably didn’t realize he did it. She couldn’t be the only one who noticed it?

“I just don’t want you to get lost down the Path. Once you become an Exarch there’s no going back.”

“Only I can make that choice,” the Serpent reiterated. While his concern was appreciated, it was also frustrating. If her father had wanted to have a better successor, he should have had more children.

Just then, Cillian seemed to have an epiphany. “How about this? We spar--” he exclaimed, springing up, “-- and if I win you promise me you’ll return to the clan.”

Aife laughed at the thought. Sure, Cillian had trained as a Binding Serpent alongside her for some time (Had her father ordered him to follow her?), but it had also been many years since he last fought as one. Regardless, the Eldar did not appear to be backing down.

“Fine,” she relented, joining him on her feet. “But be prepared to tell my father he will never see his daughter again.” The Serpent swiped the tea cup from his hands and finished what was left in it. “Now, go grab a spare gi from the changing room.”

Cillian returned in record time sporting a blood red sparring uniform, pumping himself up for the coming battle and unphased by his odds of success. Aife sized her opponent up. Before, he had always held the advantage of superior reach over her, but now she had the advantage of superior experience-- years more of it.

“Prepared, Cillian?”

“I am as ready as I will ever be,” the Wild Rider replied, shaking out his arms and trying to warm up his muscles.

Despite the Eldar’s preternatural reaction speed, Cillian was still caught off guard when Aife charged him half a second after he had closed his mouth, wrapping her arms around his torso and slamming him into the ground. This was the ritual combat of the Binding Serpents; an unending stable of grapples and throws-- too many for one to master in a lifetime. The first warrior to faint or submit in this battle was the loser. It was already off to a bad start for the Wild Rider then, but old instincts were kicking in. The two wrestled and jockeyed for control on the mat, looking like a couple of snakes fighting-- or was it mating when they tangled together like this?

Aife managed to get him in a delicate situation, clamping her thighs around his head and pinning one of his arms against her torso. The Serpent grinned as he tried unsuccessfully to loosen her legs with his free arm. “Submit!” she urged him between breaths, the combat being as much a mental game at times as it was physical. It was of great glee to the warrior to watch her opponent gradually realize they had no more endurance left to escape. He should have known better to have left himself open to this-- the technique was positively elementary. The Binding Serpent built up further pressure on her catch’s head, constricting ever tighter.

Seeing no other course of action, Cillian promptly bit into the meat of his opponent’s thigh.

The pain caused Aife to yelp, and in her surprise, the Wild Rider was able to free himself and return to the incessant tumbling that was the hallmark of two combatants vying for control. ‘But that was a foul!’ the Serpent commiserated to herself, still shaken and recovering from the jolt. ‘Only a child would have done that!’ It was too late; she realized she was no longer attacking but reacting to his own moves as they tangled around. In her shock, Cillian hooked an arm around her neck in a chokehold, pushing Aife’s face into the mat. The Serpent tried in vain to wriggle herself out from underneath him, but it was no use-- it was as if his entire body was enveloping her, all his weight pinning her down.

A smarter Eldar (or one less prone to self-righteousness) may have done the wise thing before going into battle, and donned the mental War Mask that protected their hypersensitive race’s mind from the atrocities of battle and such meddlesome thoughts as ‘This purging is unethical,’ or ‘Did I -really- say that to him when we were alone at that gathering?’ Aife, however, was coming to terms with the fact that she had not worn her War Mask-- and it was a little too late to do so now. Instead of harnessing all of her expansive mental energy on figuring out a solution to her situation, the surprise of the sudden turn of events was making her mind run at a million kilometers per hour.

Now it was Cillians turn to call for her capitulation. “Submit!” he yelled, but the Eldar couldn’t hear him. His heavy breaths were tickling the nerve cluster on the tip of her ear, and the lack of oxygen was making the corners of her vision dark. She struggled helplessly against his mass-- had he always been this bulky? The muscles in his forearm tensed up against the side of her neck, the waystone on her choker feeling like it was vibrating, ready to accept her soul when she finally passed. And there was a third Serpent with them-- Aife felt it pressing up against her entrance as she fought for space, but it wasn’t the one doing the grinding-- it was her! She was wriggling down there like a worm! She opened her mouth to cry out against the encroaching darkness, and only a croak was coming out; air refused to come in. This was it. This was how she would join the Infinity Circuit. The Eldar involuntarily shivered, her muscles failing her. Just when the darkness seemed all-consuming, Aife came.

The Wild Rider loosened his grip and sat up on his knees behind her, astounded. “Are you alright?” he sniggered despite his genuine concern. The Eldar lay limp, huffing in the musty mat air like it was a sweet, fresh breeze. Of course she was alright! That was like asking someone who had just swallowed water the wrong way and was coughing if they were ‘alright’. It would be more concerning if they were -not- coughing! Aife tried to push herself up on shaky arms, glowering at Cillian.

“So,” he chuckled, “do you want me to bring you to your father like this, or--”

“That didn’t count,” she shot back, her voice husky. “You broke the rules.”

“Then you would rather this be a best-of-three?”

The Serpent launched herself at him (as best as one can launch themselves while on their knees), and the two re-engaged in their twisting of fates. This time, though, both parties seemed to be spent. Aife ended up on her opponent’s lap, pinning his wrists above his head on the floor. In the chaos, Cillian’s uniform top had come undone, baring his broad chest.

“You should have tightened your belt better,” the teacher panted. Instead of continuing the battle, however, the Eldar-- already distracted-- let her eyes wander down her prey’s chiseled figure to identify the hill she was currently perched on. The Wild Rider’s crown was poking out from his gi bottoms, a bead of pre forming on its tip. Somehow Aife was surprised by this. “Cillian!” she blustered. Her admonishment didn’t have much weight after what she had just done. Embarrassed, the Serpent let go of his wrists and backed up off his crotch.

“Maybe…” Cillian sheepishly suggested, as pink in the ears as Aife was, “Maybe we should postpone this fight until a later date?” He pulled his pants up and went to retie his jacket, but the damage was already done-- Aife couldn’t help but watch his bulge as she spoke.

“That may be for the best,” she agreed, instinctually moving to re-tighten her own belt-- but the action made her audibly yip. By Isha, her nipples were chafing against the gi’s fabric. This never happened!

Cillian’s left ear twitched, and he reached toward her. “Are you injured?” The Wild Rider eyed Aife despite her insistent nods that she was fine. She must have been showing through her top like a pair of star lances though, because he suppressed a smirk as he asked the next question. “Do you want me to kiss where it hurts?”

If Cillian had been better at psychically masking his emotions, then Aife would have been quite capable of rejecting his offer. However, stronger than the sexual urges (which Aife was certain she was accidentally letting slip as well) or the self-satisfaction of getting to use his favorite catchphrase, the Serpent could feel immense care for her well-being emanating from him. That, mixed with the touch of his hand on her thighs, gave her a warm, tingling feeling inside. Curse her father, he hadn’t sent one of his lieutenants, he had inadvertently sent some wicked daemon of seduction!

“Perhaps,” she murmured. If only he wasn’t so damnably honest. And loyal. And reliable. And persistent! Khaine’s blood, she had wanted to do this for a long while! The Serpent leaned forward and pressed her lips to his own, determined to be the kisser and not the kissed. Not expecting the attack, Cillian jerked his head back, but Aife followed and crawled on top of him, pushing him back onto the mat and planting her lips on his again.

“I didn’t think it was your mouth that hurt,” the Wild Rider gasped as Aife pulled back. His hands were already fiddling with her belt. She offered her assistance with that as they sat up, shrugging her jacket off her shoulders. Sure enough, her stubby pink lances were pointing immodestly outward. Cillian stopped his mouth an inch away from one of them, his breaths rousing an ache out of it.

“Stop that,” Aife scolded, pulling his head into her chest so he didn’t have a choice in the matter. Heavy breathing was an unfortunate habit for Eldar men to possess when their women were as ultra-sensory as they were. The Wild Rider kissed her prickling skin, migrating over to a breast with light pecks along the way. Taking a nub in his mouth, he alternated between sucking and biting on it, drawing out tasty little hoots from its owner. This was no good, though-- the stimulation only made them more sore.

“No, no…” the Serpent tried to pull his face away from that side, but all that accomplished was getting the other side attended to. “That’s enough,” she declared, a flick of his tongue causing her Webway portal to experience some psychic feedback simultaneously. “Quite enough!” Was this man even listening? Any attempt to pull him off and he doubled his effort. Aife gripped one of his ears and squeezed, causing the Eldar’s body to practically jump from the startle. She had his full attention now.

“Yes?”

He had confusion writ large on his face, like he had been so immersed in servicing her that he hadn’t heard her commands to stop. Aife was not entirely sold on that interpretation. She stared into his eyes disapprovingly, pondering her next move. Her panties had gotten damp (From her sweat, surely?) and the wet fabric on her lower soul-bead was driving her crazy. Cillian just sat there, content to hold her waist and stare back. The empathic waves he was failing to dampen caused the Serpent’s mind to soften. Enough thinking-- she deserved this!

Her hands fumbled around at his waistband, her mind moving too fast for the body to keep up. Picking up on the queue, the Wild Rider slid Aife’s own pair down her legs effortlessly. Sure enough, she was a mess down there. The two pivoted forward so the Serpent was on her back now, not that she had much of a choice as Cillian slipped her pants off her legs and over his shoulder, continuing on to free his own python which strained against its bonds. It slapped up against her mound, throbbing ever so slightly with a mind of its own. For some reason it looked bigger now that it was out.

Cillian leaned over her, resting an elbow against the mat and tussling her hair. He did that for a few seconds, then with his other hand, grabbed one of hers and locked fingers. He was taking his sweet time.

“You better not be thinking up something stupid to say, like ‘First one to come loses,’ or any nonsense like that.”

He shook his head no. There was hesitation in him, but Aife couldn’t scry what.

“Are you going to ask my father for permission? Go, idiot!-- But no ears.” It was a belief on Saim-Hann that only mating couples could go for the ears during sex-- some old superstition that Aife wasn’t about to break. The Serpent took his shaft in her hand and directed him to the right spot, not that it would have been difficult to find if you followed the heat. Measured, he inserted gingerly, his cockhead nudging the nerve endings on the underside of her clitoris as it pushed ever onwards. Over an eternity, his broadspear pierced forward, the speed at which he was entering seeming more impressively extraordinary than if he just… fucked her… regularly! When he finally reached the end Aife hoped he might speed up, but instead the retreat was as subdued as the attack. Isha’s Tears, it was like his girth was getting caught on every possible surface! The pair were both perspiring greater now than when they were fighting.

This agony continued for three more thrusts (if you would be so bold as to call them that), Cillian closing his eyes and breathing deeply the entire time. Aife was having no more of it. It was like she was hanging by a thread, her core tense and her breath held waiting for him to make her cum-- please! Finally, when he reached her opening again, putting that slightest bit of maddening pressure on her wound-up warp prism, the Binding Serpent snapped and wrapped a leg around his waist, jerking him in in one fell swoop.

Her partner cried out, his cock spasming inside her as he raced to remove it from her grippy clutches. In her defense, she was as surprised at this development as he was. There had barely been any foreplay, unless you counted their wrestling! The Wild Rider plopped out in a sweaty, sticky jumble and sprayed Aife with his Starcannon. Given the strength of Eldar’s muscles he left several long, thick strands of fate spanning her torso, one sacrilegiously painting the soul-stone on her neck pearly.

“For what purpose…?” Aife muttered, baffled. He could just have well let all of it loose inside, it wasn’t like she’d have gotten pregnant from a single deposit. Cillian finally opened his eyes, a disappointed, accommodating half-smile on his face. His juicy left ear trembled again. She might have to break her own rule…

“I wasn’t trying to--”

“Well I certainly was,” the Serpent interrupted. “I am not a Drukhari, I don’t get off from orgasm denial.” She pushed him off and they both rose to their knees. The danger of their situation caught up to her when she realized she had left the door to the shrine agape. She would never be able to show her face on the Craftworld ever again if someone walked in on her, the caretaker of the shrine, getting dicked down in broad daylight next to the altar of Khaine. Her heart skipped a beat even considering the possibility… “Let’s move this to the rectory, shall we?”

Aife herded her conquering into the small side room. Yes-- that was what he was. Her’s. Having lived so long in the mindset of eternal rebellion against the world (mostly just her lot in life), she’d been missing out on an ally. This would be her secret, then; he would be HER man, not her father’s.

The rectory stewed in a general state of disarray, her bedroll in the corner un-made, the wooden coffee table where she took her meals on the floor covered in last month’s news-slates. And-- Lileath’s Robes!-- was that a musky smell in the air? No, that was only his seed on her. She’d have to wipe that up before it dripped on the floormats. They were woven from rushes harvested in the Swamp of Inimitable Rage. She didn’t want to call the master craftsman again to treat an awkward stain; she was still trying to forget the last time.

The Binding Serpent had been so engrossed in the search for a clean towel that Cillian was able to sneak up from behind and wrap a hand around her shoulders. His Singing Spear pressed up against the small of her back. That was a quick recovery.

“I need to find a cloth, you shortsighted mon’keigh.”

But the simple fool wasn’t listening. He slipped his manhood between her legs and hugged her tighter, half-carrying and half-walking the Serpent over to the bedroll on her toes.

“You’ve surely gained a lot of confidence since your accident,” Aife taunted as he pushed her down onto her elbows and knees to mate like some base animal. His scepter rubbed toyingly along her lips, the sensation sending butterflies to her stomach. Cillian leaned over to an ear, surrounding her body with his own much like he had done before during their fight in the dojo. His rod slid in-- quickly this time-- filling her up with a satisfyingly slick shlorp as it claimed every inch of her canal, then adding a couple more. She hadn’t known her body was capable of producing that sound up until this point.

Cillian whispered mockingly against her eartip. “Well, the same could be said for you-- Daddy’s. Little. Princess.” Oh, he did NOT just say that! This was her shrine, and--

The Serpent’s protestations caught in her throat as Cillian began ramming his wraithbone spire into her in long, sloppy thrusts. Aife’s heart fluttered and her tiny Weeping Stone buzzed from the attention; each smack of his balls against it pushing her face further into the pillow. The Wild Rider shifted to her other ear, planting a kiss on what was available of her cheek.

“Sure have a lot of confidence for a girl who squirts from getting choked out.”

Aife was burning up, unsure as to whether it was her chagrin or her impotent rage from his teasing. Isha, she was getting ridden hard and messy like an adolescent training on the jetbike with something to prove, but she was the one gripping -his- throttle as he slid in and out. The bastard wrapped a thick arm around her chest and used the other one to tussle her hair like she was some child.

“Say you lost and I’ll let you come,” he huffed haltingly into her ear between slaps from his Fusion Gun.

“No!”

“Say you lost-- and I’ll let you-- come!”

“NO!”

If there was a single thing in life Aife refused to give up, even while getting folded into a quivering bundle of nerves, it was her indignation. Thankfully, she needn't give it up just yet, because the angle with which Cillian’s Swooping Cock was pounding her made the girl shed miserable, elfin moans. Kurnous’s Bow, did he ever let up? Any movement was labored-- if it was possible at all with him gripping her so tightly. Her lungs burned trying to keep up with ragged breaths filtered through the pillow case. Beads of sweat made their skin stick together like they were one disgusting, moist beast in heat. The heavy tap of his sack on her maidenhood beat out what remained of her dignity. The Serpent’s whole body was one tense spring from her fingers clenching the sheets to her toes curling into the air. He was crushing her! She was being crushed! Her spot was being crushed!

The final muscle to tense up, Aife’s cunt, pulsed and clenched wildly. Eldar being empaths, Cillian was not far behind when the psychic waves started crashing up against his mind, functionally collapsing over her as his rigid muscle bucked and swelled against its imprisonment. It let out no fewer bursts of sticky semen than it had previously, except this time deep inside her and with no hesitation. Both Eldar shuddered lightly from the exertion, grinding marginally where they connected in an unconscious yearning for more despite their organ’s immediate delicacy.

The Wild Rider shifted onto his side, dragging her with him to lay wrapped in his arms, burying his face in her mess of hair. She had been right earlier-- she did deserve this. It was only morning, but she could have spent the rest of the day like this soaking in his unguarded emotions.

“You can tell my father he doesn’t have to worry about me becoming an Exarch.”

Cillian shifted behind her. She sensed surprise.

“I think the fact there was ever a question as to whether I would do it means I simply am not made for that role.” Becoming an Exarch was one of those things where you either were one or you were not-- and if you were unsure that meant you were not; The Paths begged for surety the longer you walked along them. The thought was melancholy, but freeing.

“So, does that mean you’ll return to the clan? Walk down the Path of the Leader?”

Aife exhaled an amused sigh. “No, my father can-- what was the word you used?” The Serpent twisted in his arms and planted a kiss on Cillian’s cheek. “He can ‘crystallize’ for a little longer. But you might be able to convince me to come back earlier if you visit more often. Would I stay on the Path if I got pregnant?”

The Eldar had no immediate plans for that insinuation to come to fruition, but she hoped that by integrating his burgeoning loyalty to her with his unending loyalty to her father, he may one day not be able to distinguish the two. Regardless of what the scheming Serpent had in mind for her own rebellious reasons, she had managed to take their two tangled red yarns of fate and bind them into one muddled, unkempt knot.

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