Alterations for Midriél and Evandolas (I)

Greetings traveller,

Tired you look from wandering the digital wastelands of the internet. Rest and sit by the fire, and be welcomed to listen to wise and true words that illume the ancient tale of Midriél and Evandolas (including “what the fuck did I just read?” and “how can I delete my browser history?”).

~

Part I

Dark brethren to the sylvan race in eras of yore, they had taken to the night and to the blood, eventually seeking mastery over Death herself.

is commented as follows:

Just as with the ponygirl fetish, I found myself intrigued by the idea of exploring the vampire myth from different angles. In modern fantasy Dark Elves already have a number of vampiric characteristics attributed to them, such as inclinations towards cruelty and gloom (literally or metaphorically) – not to mention longevity. Therefore it was not so big a leap to merge both concepts and see what happens

Midriél and Evandolas — Part Two of Two

Midriél and Evandolas

Part Two of Two:

The Dire-Stones

For a sennight the welts drawn on Midriél’s rear faded, and for the same sennight her dark desire rose anew. The pleasure she had found under her lover’s cane had been absolute, but oh so fleeting, the memory of it turned to a mocking phantasm. The burning Evandolas’ pole had left in its wake was gone, replaced by an emptiness along her oral passage and up the more sinister one of her bottom.

Sun-danced water caressed her skin, washed away the day’s strains and replenished the Elf-girl. She dove down into the coolness, broke the surface again, the copper of her hair turned rust. Midriél spun about and fell still, floating on the tiny waves, eyes closed against the late light. With her ears submerged she could not hear the forest, yet timely a smile found her soft lips. Neither turning her head nor opening her eyes she began a gentle backstroke towards the sole pebble shore of the steep-banked loch. As the ground reached up she abandoned her levitating pose and tumbled to stand upright. The water bared her shoulders, and she could see – and could be seen from – the stony stretch before the trees.

Evandolas was sitting in the midst of it, next to the boulder on which her attire was neatly splayed out. His voice, teasing and gentle, was carried over to her with the faintest of echoes.

“A goblin once snuck through the leaves,

Saw close a maiden bathing.

He grabbed her clothes, the worst of thieves,

All deer roused by his laughing.”