Chapter 24: Mead Hall Mastery
The silence that had fallen after the mending of the gate clung to them all the way back to the village, thick and unspoken. It was Loras who broke it, his voice unnaturally bright as they approached the warm, noisy glow of the tavern.
“A celebration!” he declared, clapping Minalan on the back with a force that was more nervous than jovial. “The gnolls are routed! The gate stands stronger than it has in a century! We drink!”
The tavern was a wave of sound and heat that washed over them. The air was thick with the scent of spiced wine, roasting boar, and unwashed bodies. A fiddle sawed a frantic tune in the corner, and elves packed the floor, their usual reserved grace shed with their armor. They’d already heard the story, passed from lip to lip in excited whispers, growing with each telling.
When Minalan ducked through the doorway, a roar went up. Dozens of tankards were thrust into the air. He was swept into the current of it, pulled towards the long bar where a massive keg sat, already tapped.
“A drink for the Gate-Mender!” someone shouted.
“A drink? The human deserves the whole keg!” another voice yelled, met with laughter and cheers.
Minalan just grinned, that easy, charismatic smile that seemed to calm the very air around him. He hoisted the small barrel onto his shoulder as if it were a pillow. He didn’t drink from a tankard. He put his mouth to the tap and opened it.
The crowd watched, mesmerized, as he drank. It wasn’t the desperate guzzling of a man trying to prove a point, but the steady, deep consumption of a parched land drinking in a rainstorm. He drank for a full minute, the ale streaming down his chin, soaking the front of his tunic. When he finally lowered the keg, it was noticeably lighter. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and let out a satisfied sigh. The tavern erupted.
Elara watched him, her blue eyes dark with a mixture of pride and raw, possessive hunger. She’d changed into a thin, silken skirt that clung to her hips and a matching top that left little to the imagination. Lyra, at her side, was similarly clad in flowing, translucent layers that hinted at the lush curves beneath. They were a matched set, offered up for the victor.
The fiddle player struck up a wild, pounding reel. Minalan reached out, his hands finding the bare skin of their waists. He pulled them both into the center of the floor, and the dance began.
It was less a dance and more a controlled, rhythmic storm. He spun them, their bodies extensions of his own momentum. Elara’s silver hair became a whip of light, Lyra’s laughter a bright counterpoint to the music’s drive. Their skirts flared, revealing the long, strong lines of their legs, the swell of their asses barely concealed by flimsy thongs.
The music pounded through the floorboards, into their bones. Minalan’s hands slid down, palming the full, firm curves of their backsides through the silk. A sharp, playful smack landed on Elara’s cheek, the sound crisp and clear over the music. She yelped, not in pain, but in delight, pressing herself back against his hand. He did the same to Lyra, whose face flushed a deep, pleased pink, her motherly composure melting into something wanton and eager.
He leaned down, his voice a low growl meant only for their ears, though the whole tavern could likely guess its content. “You both danced so pretty for everyone. But later… later I’m going to see you dance just for me. I’m going to fill you both so deep you’ll feel it for days.”
Elara moaned, her head falling back against his shoulder. “Promise?”
Lyra just bit her lip, her eyes glazing over with anticipation.
From a shadowed booth, Loras watched. He nursed a single glass of wine, his fingers trembling slightly around the stem. He saw the way his wife and daughter moved for the human, the way their bodies yielded to his every touch, the open, desperate want on their faces. A strange, tight heat coiled in his gut. It wasn’t jealousy. It was reverence.
He stood and weaved through the crowd, coming to stand beside the spinning trio. His voice, when he spoke, was pitched to carry over the music to Minalan.
“Look at them,” Loras said, his eyes fever-bright. “My beautiful lineage. My treasures. See how their bodies beg for your seed? They were made for this. Made to be your broodmares, to carry your powerful blood.” He reached out, almost touching Minalan’s arm, but pulled back. “Don’t be gentle. They don’t deserve gentle. They deserve to be used, filled, bred. Make them scream.”
Minalan didn’t stop dancing, but he met Loras’s gaze over Lyra’s shoulder. There was no disgust there, no judgment, just a calm, almost placid acceptance. As if the old elf’s fervent dirty talk was the most natural thing in the world.
The song ended with a final, screeching note from the fiddle. The dancers collapsed into laughter and breathless cheers. Minalan, with an arm still wrapped around each woman, began to guide them towards the tavern’s rear door, leading to the private living quarters.
The crowd parted for them, offering slaps on the back and knowing, envious smiles. Loras followed a few steps behind, a dutiful acolyte.
As they moved into the dim, quieter hallway, the sounds of the celebration muffled behind them, the energy shifted. The public performance was over. The private claiming was about to begin. Lyra glanced back at her husband, her expression a complex mix of love, pity, and excitement. Elara just tightened her grip on Minalan’s arm, her focus singular.
Loras stopped at the doorway to their chambers, not following them in. He would remain outside, a self-appointed sentinel. He leaned against the doorframe, his breathing shallow, listening for the first sounds from within. A slow, wicked smile spread across his face. This was his celebration, too.