Deep Connection

That evening, there burned a furnace on the horizon, the sun somehow more vivid, painting the sky with more saturated color. With a hundred thousand hues, old and wonderfully new. Rich, precious yellow and orange at the ocean horizon, an ethereal, shimmering band that seemed to take on notes of green almost only in Kael’thas’ mind, shifting then into salmon, to sun-dried raspberry still on the stalk. Burnished yellow-brown turned into a delicate blue, which spent the whole rest of the sky, up above her until she could no longer see it, seamlessly transitioning into midnight blue. She took a deep, nourishing breath, cementing her resolve, building containment around her dancing, jumping heart. Caging the nerves, the anxiety, not by sudden entrapment, but by slipping, very carefully, a net around it, tightening it, until she could truss up those feelings and leave them in a corner. Not insignificant, perhaps, but less focused upon.

In the same way the sky moved from the fiery light well out on the sea to the gentle dark above, she had come to the resolution about to be played out. Silvermoon City, nay, Quel’thalas as a whole, even Dalaran, possessed almost no one in whom she was interested – certainly no one in whom the station and status and physique she desired all came together. Only one being met that exacting standard, a singular, beautiful, frightening creature. Tyrande. The High Priestess of Elune, of the kaldorei – her people – who was encamped outside the city, who she had been told not merely that she should not interact with, but that her connection to the kaldorei was a distraction of such importance that it would impact the no doubt countless meetings to come.

So, naturally, the Princess clothed herself in the plainest fashion available to her, a summer dress with the merest hint of plaid patterning, save that those marks were golden thread woven into the cloth. The pleated, crimson red skirt reached a few inches above her knees, and, other than that dress, she wore only golden-brown sandals with myriad thin straps to wrap around and capture her feet and ankles. In the city, even just outside it, what else could she possibly need? Were she thirsty, she might turn to anyone, any quel’dorei, and they would give her water. Were she to need help, equally, she might turn to anyone to request it, and be granted the request. The people surely loved the Sunstrider dynasty, and so, it would amount to no great trouble that she left this, one of her apartments, to wander. In the direction of the kaldorei camp, which she would surely come upon soon enough.

When she made to leave, the guards separated from their positions at the walls, always present, rarely noticed until one needed them, and followed her. She told them to stay behind, and though they showed clear regret, they moved alongside her anyway. Their instructions came from precisely that same, highest authority which had tried to cage her: The king.

Kael’thas descended the grand tower, emerging onto the white and reddish-brown, flat and smooth stones of the Silvermoon streets, decidedly gloomier than she had been but a few minutes earlier. That same radiance which had infused everything, from the darkening evening sky to the usually dull roofs of the city, had leeched out of the air in no more time than it took her to use the teleportation crystal that took her from the skyward apartment to ground level. The shadows crept across the ground, now, stealing the last rays of sunlight. Grasping for her. She sneered, turning to the nearest guard, who would not leave her be.

“Go back to your place,” Kael’thas said to him.

He looked grief-stricken, and she understood why. That same man had guarded her from when she was but a babe, and had taken care to be on her good side, always. During her most insufferable, unreasonable years growing up, and even now. At long last, a situation had arisen in which he found himself her enemy, and, knowing his long struggle not to be, she needed level no more than a piercing gaze at him to feel his resolve shatter into a thousand shards of glass which she might continue to trample upon at her leisure. She was no longer a child. She did not need him, did not need her father, to decide for her what was proper. Certainly, she would not interfere with the official meetings between Quel’thalas and the kaldorei delegation, but that did not mean she could not go to visit them.

Yet, no matter how many times she told her guards to leave her be, to return to the tower, to go and get her this or that, so that she might slip away, they never indulged her quite so much that she had the necessary moment to disappear. Putting upon, externally, a dismissive, exasperated mask was no great task – she had practiced that specific reaction for many years. But the cage within was broken open, rusted in record time, and so her heart thumped and beat what felt irregularly, urged on by the biting sensation of anxiety. An ethereal claw grasping her insides, not quite cold, certainly not warm. Prickling, stealing her attention the way it manifested everywhere. In her chest. In her forearms. In her cheeks. Little nodules of light that burned and burst painlessly, to be replaced by another, somewhere else.

Would the High Priestess even remember the Princess of Quel’thalas if the two did not meet, at long last, both sides able to indulge in that meeting? Would Kael’thas survive the next few decades of little to no contact without allowing herself to sate her curiosity about the kaldorei for but a few, short weeks? Life would go on, she knew as much. In an intellectual capacity. But the claw squeezed her heart, and seemed to milk from her an internal tension that made it feel as if she blinked away moisture, that made swallowing painful, as if the despair rose into a lump that built at the back of her mouth. And yet was not there. Only, her senses, her emotions were convinced it was. She went home, after her guards had refused her going towards the city gates, with a feeling that she might throw up, not because she was sick, not because she reacted to something in drink or food, merely because an ever-growing, slow bubble of tingling anguish rose from her throat, and refused to break and pop no matter how many times she swallowed.

They returned to the tower, the translocation orb taking two guards up, then her, then the remaining four guards. Each of them took their place again, and so she was left to dump herself upon the chaise once more, that sickening knot dulling, but not disappearing. For an hour, she sat and stared as the last remnants of day gave way, as one of the two moons rose, and as the endless stars twinkled and blinked at her, mocking her inability to meet with their children. The kaldorei – their word for starborne.

A moment of resolve came and went and steeled her. It was when that same, hard knot of despair had spread into a minor headache, when she had gotten tired of the constant feeling of tears that never materialized. She could leave, at any moment. It was obedience, social convention, that kept her in place. The pride of the family.

The guards would not be able to track her, as long as she was swift, and laid a few distracting illusions in her wake. They would know, but if they valued their lives, their positions, they would never speak to anyone of her disappearance, and eventual reappearance. Certainly, her father ought never know. For her sake, but for each individual guard’s sake, too. It would be much easier if they saw things that way, and, most likely, they would – if the guards wanted glory in the field, they had chosen the wrong path. Almost certainly, the fact that they were her guards, not grizzled veterans stationed somewhere far less hospitable guaranteed that they were the types to keep quiet.

She rose from the chaise, no longer content with pretending to lazily accent her fate, with putting on the appearance of endless, dull fascination with the myriad stars, moving instead to her chambers. There was no need to tell any of them that she did not wish to be disturbed, such a thing went without saying. Even so, usually, she preferred to close the door to all but her handmaidens, but she had sent them away, and required the door to be open. Not that it would matter. If any single guard motioned to approach, unbidden, she felt certain that the others would stop such a notion. Certainly that evening and night. They might dare approach in the morning, when she did not rise, but by then, she would be long gone.

Princess Kael’thas held her breath for an extended period of time, once within her bedchamber. To listen for anyone approaching, counter-intuitively, after she had just spent a good deal of time convincing herself that none of them would dare. But such matters transcended logic, or perhaps burrowed in beneath its foundation, making primal creatures of everyone. However distasteful. Satisfied that no one was coming, she traced the precise patterns of twin spells: Invisibility, and feather fall, such that she could open the single window, move aside the priceless knickknacks placed on the sill, step up onto the space created, and then into thin air.

She did not plummet, then, and almost wished she had. Invisible, no one would see her descent, so she might as well have waited to arrest her fall until closer to the ground. As it was, the slow drop took her well over five minutes. From the top of the floating, hundred-foot tower, and another three, near four hundred feet of empty air until the translocation orb house well beneath. The wind was unkind on the way down, and as she silently floated down, she wished she had thought to bring a coat of some sort. Protection from the elements was readily fixed with magic, of course, but weaving arcane power was a process, even when wordless, that drew attention from those attuned, and so, she would only cast more spells while within the city walls if gravely necessary.

Thoroughly chilled in the simple, priceless summer dress, she nevertheless made contact with the streets. Near empty, night having settled, and all the more interesting and somehow alive, to her eye, without the pomp and circumstance inevitably dragged in her wake, and in the wake of her guards. Still, the sight of a flower merchant packing up his wares, a late night baked goods seller doing likewise, was of considerably less interest than the prospect of leaving the city, and making her way towards the kaldorei camp. So, to no fanfare at all, a few flaring, arcane golem eyes following her path without alerting anyone, she did so. Headed south, past the gates, and into Eversong.

She recalled the regal, stern gaze of the High Priestess, how she had seemed so tall, so exquisitely sculpted, and yet had a reputation for being headstrong, even brash. A chosen woman of action, the envoy of her goddess. Not a mage, and quite naturally, given the shared history of their people, someone with immense distrust of those who wield the arcane. Still, it was well known that the High Priestess’ mate slept the many years away in barrow dens, beneath the ground, and so, Kael reasoned, she would be lonely. Perhaps unable to do something about that loneliness, given her high position. Like Kael’thas herself, Tyrande might look for a few weeks of self-indulgence, a few weeks where hedonist impulse was allowed to rule, rather than sense and sensibility. They were equals, in that way, surely. Near enough. The frequent indulgences of members of the kaldorei delegation, over the years, were well-known. They seemed to have a taste for their smaller kin, and, surely, the High Priestess would be delighted at fulfilling the increasingly desperate, long-smoldering dream within Kael’thas’ heart.

To this woman, this regal kaldorei, one who had cast off imperial rule, who had stood against the demons, who had fought and judged and commanded for millennia, she would kneel. She would submit. To a woman of worth, of skill.

Provided she could find this woman. Get to her.

She discovered soon enough, after several minutes of enthusiastic, purposeful stalking down the road, that getting to southern Eversong would be more than half an hour’s walk. She knew that, of course, though she could not recall ever walking the distance. She had ridden, and flown, and been transported aboard ship and in carriages, and knew. It was the desperate flurry of confusing emotions, of allowing herself to break the king’s command in order to seek what her heart desired, that had momentarily allowed her to be thoughtless. Still, to maintain stealth, she could not commandeer a hawkstrider by royal decree, and so, she resolved to walk. Out of the city, she could at least use magic to be comfortable. Cast a spell of protection from the elements. Summon food, and drink, and more suitable footwear.

It took the whole night, a few hours of rest in a little, secluded nook in someone’s barn, and then another several hours of walking, but, by her own power, undetected, she went south. Crossed the river, and went further onward, until the anomalous presence of a cadre of guards in the middle of the road, doing nothing at all, told her that the kaldorei camp ought to be nearby. Not that trouble was expected, as such, but the night elves had different customs, and some of the locals might scare easily. It was easier to keep the peace with a few handfuls of watchful soldiers than to rely on diplomatic incidents never occurring. And, the Princess slowly realized, the guards might be there to prevent the bout of pregnancies that seemed to follow every visit of the kaldorei, which she had never thought about very much, but suddenly found rather interesting.

She veered off the road, and trudged through undergrowth along a much less clear path, one that seemed more likely to have been carved out of the wilderness by animal hoof and paw than sin’dorei or kaldorei feet. Nevertheless, after ten minutes of careful progress, she came upon an indication of civilization. Not the kaldorei camp, but something nipping at her senses, her attunement with magic, impressing upon her that there was something very close. Just over the next rise, she would be sure to find the source of power that seemed to try to cloak itself. The High Priestess, perhaps?

Another step, and then two shadows separated, each from their own tree trunk. Out of nowhere, without magic that she should have perceived if it were used, kaldorei materialized from nothing, shadows clinging like ink-black syrup, hesitant to leave behind their comfortable home. Not that the two sentinels appeared to notice the odd behavior of those shadows, which, for a brief moment, Kael’thas pondered the source of. They were their own construct, not cast. Certainly not from the trees, nor from the two night elves. Who, by all rights, ought not to be able to see her. Yet they walked directly towards her, even without those pale blue, luminous eyes settling on her firmly. They perceived her, then, with senses other than sight. Scent, perhaps? Hearing? Did the kaldorei have some inherent feeling for spellwork near them? Could they tell that an invisible being passed by merely by the fact that magic made it invisible, or was it only razor-sharp, but very regular, senses?

“Identify yourself,” one of the two said.

A black-haired, tall, lean creature, her imposing presence undercut somewhat by the thoroughly provincial accent that the night elven language carried to Kael’thas’ ears. As if a fisher-woman, undoubtedly physically honed and capable of incredible feats, such as detecting the invisible trespasser by scent or hearing alone, had stepped right off the pier to try to come off imposing. Not that she was not, but it portrayed the kind of rural simpleton which she very much did not want to find in the kaldorei camp, nor think of them as. But, then, perhaps to the kaldorei, the quel’dorei branch of the language might sound unbelievably snooty, or old-fashioned, or, horror of horrors, provincial in turn.

The second sentinel stepped up next to the first, placing a hand upon the hilt of the blade at her side. Again, their eyes, wavering just so, focusing on the wrong thing, but very close to where the Princess was, told her that she was not perceived directly, but had nevertheless been found out. She allowed herself an exasperated sigh, and let the magic slip. Faded into being over the course of a single beat of her heart, stood just over thirty feet from the two kaldorei. She needed no convincing that the two could cover that distance and skewer her before she could cast another spell, but, if they had wished to do that, they would have tried already. Just as she had been cautioned to be on her best behavior – that was, not to behave at all, or even be near the night elven delegation – so too had the sentinels, no doubt. So, Kael’thas looked first at one sentinel, and then the other.

In the pit of her stomach, the fluttering excitement and anxiety still occasionally moved. Not for those two sentinels, however, and, thinking them incapable of violence against her, she instead merely appraised them. As they did her, in a way she was largely unused to. Only stolen, indecent glances swiftly directed elsewhere, attempted covered up when she saw them, had observed her in such a brazen fashion for many years, but neither of the two chiseled forest bumpkins seemed aware of proper behavior when dealing with a Princess. Of course, they had had no royalty for years. Generations. Even so, the naked, carnal appreciation projected from the two, tall night elves, their eyes hungry, lingering on her chest, on her midsection, her thighs, all prudently covered with red and gold cloth, put a certain spin on the situation.

She surprised herself, most of all, when she realized that the kind of looks she would normally have despised, have had someone removed from her presence over, did not elicit that same disgust when coming from the large, pale, purple-skinned creatures before her. Lean, and strong, but so much larger as to come off broad and stable and dependable and protective by their mere presence, Kael’thas had an inkling of just exactly why the camp had to be guarded not due to kaldorei aggression, but attention from the locals. And the High Priestess, the memory of her rising more and more clearly into the Princess’ mind, was yet more exquisite than these two. By all rights, they were no more than the equivalent of her own royal guard, if even that. Near commoners. Still, she could not allow any of that quiet admiration at their simple attraction to color her expression, and so the mask remained neutral.

“Princess Kael’thas Sunstrider,” she said, at long last, one second having stretched into two handfuls as both sides appraised the other. “I have come to treat with the High Priestess. Whisperwind.”

Just as Kael’thas had struggled for a moment to understand the night elven spoken at her as something other than an archaic and odd provincial accent, the two fought to take in her words. Visibly, eyes twitching, narrowing in a minuscule fashion, an ear shivering here, lips moving towards a smile there. By all indications, Thalassian was as amusing to the kaldorei as their language was to her. She forcefully set the notion aside, focusing instead on her posture, on keeping her chin up, on maintaining a cool, but not unfriendly, steady expression.

“No one is expected today,” the black-haired sentinel said. She took a casual step closer, as her sister sentinel removed the hand from the hilt of her weapon. “The High Priestess is not expecting you.”

“But she will, regardless, want to meet with me, and speak with me,” Kael’thas said. She took a breath, holding it for a second. All the time, she had to keep her expression neutral. Had to keep her body still, for myriad small ticks, unconscious movements, could reveal more than she wished to portray. Especially to creatures whose senses seemed so attuned to the world as to be able to catch the invisible by scent and hearing alone. “I guarantee it,” she added.

The second one – the one Kael’thas thought of as the second one, blue-haired, the one who had put a hand on her weapon – spoke not to Kael’thas, but to her sentinel sister. A command, swift, comfortable with the tongue, so much so that only general meaning from fragmentary words was possible. The black-haired one was told to escort the Princess to the camp, and then return to her post.

After brief acknowledgment, movement too subtle even for Kael’thas’ senses to really grasp, the black-haired one straightened into a more relaxed stance. The lack of an obvious salute would have been grounds for disciplinary action among the Silvermoon guard, most likely, but the two kaldorei displayed not for a moment any indignation or animosity between each other. The black-haired one offered the smallest bow of her head, and then turned, gesturing with her hand and arm towards the small rise, behind which Kael’thas sensed steady, foreign power. Not arcane. Not the Sunwell’s energies gathered and focused. Something different, and raw.

Tyrande.

With a single, long glance to the apparently senior of the two sentinels, the one remaining behind, the Princess stepped closer. She passed between the kaldorei, a sensation like moving down a cramped street lined, on both sides, with sturdy pillars so close as to be claustrophobic, leaning over her head, imposing, and yet merely a soulless part of a building. Without intent. Not that the sentinels could be said to be without intent, but she could feel no conscious effort from either to intimidate her. They were merely the natural product of the long, brutal meritocracy of nature, of survival, of thriving against all their enemies, against the Burning Legion. They did not think to be those pillars, but were such creatures either way. Naturally.

She ascended the small rise, the black-haired sentinel a few steps behind, and caught the top of tall, narrow, deep purple tents. Not luxurious homes away from home, for apparently the night elves did not think to spend much time alone inside each tent, pillows and covers arranged there, and little else. No more than shelters to sleep, then. There was a central gathering place, a fire, a few fonts filled with the pale blue, glowing water of a moonwell, no doubt brought across the oceans. All was simple, clean, natural, well-maintained.

The only thing that stood out in the camp, among its many tens of sentinels, of followers, of white-clad priestesses, was a central, larger tent. A square of heavy cloth, tied down, with guardian sentinels positioned outside the loose, but closed flap over the entranceway, even within the camp. Even in the middle of the people who ought to be the most dedicated, the most loyal. This, Kael’thas saw immediately, still descending the other side of the small rise in the terrain behind which the camp nestled, coming up on its diffuse perimeter.

A quel’dorei camp, she imagined, had always experienced, would have set a physical barrier around itself, a clear delineation of where it began and ended. Whether the kaldorei refrained from doing such a thing because of their brief stay, or because they were on a diplomatic visit, not a military excursion, she did not know. Clusters of tents and imaginary lines connecting them formed that border instead, a thing which existed as some commonly understood but nevertheless unreal construction between all who came upon the camp. Yet, as hard to define as it was, she sensed when she had taken a step into the territory of the camp, rather than merely being in Eversong.

“Captain!”

The black-haired sentinel stopped, having yelled, an unstoppable, reflexive jerk of shock jolting along Kael’thas’ spine. A most undignified reaction, one she would have preferred to be without in the presence of the many refined, foreign night elves, each seeming at once casual, at peace with the land and forest around them, and yet as if they hovered, dignified, through the winding and regal pathways of a temple. They did not gather in excitement at the prospect of a single quel’dorei arriving at their camp, but then, they likely did not know that the elf who had come was the Princess. Not that, looking around, Kael’thas imagined that knowledge would have changed matters terribly.

Quite clearly, as evidenced by the occasional bow of a head or salute – a hand held to the heart – or a full bow from the waist, there was hierarchy among the kaldorei. Military, certainly, and religious. But where the quel’dorei maintained their nobility, the night elves had abolished such a class of people almost entirely. What remained of it, in Kael’thas’ estimation, had largely been rolled into the Sisterhood of Elune, each priestess an authority in their own right, even if they came together and ruled and judged and advised one-another in a manner quite unlike the nobility of Silvermoon City. Thus, it was no surprise that the sentinel Captain, a woman with hair more ashen than black, strictly woven into a tail that reached the small of her back and beyond, was accompanied by a priestess.

Kael’thas had seen and experienced snow, though rarely the crisp cold so deep and long-lasting as to feel almost like a desert, and yet the pale-skinned, white-haired woman who accompanied the comparatively hulking Captain brought to mind a statue left out in just such a cold climate. A pristine, perfect representation of a regal ideal, cool, someone to whom one naturally wished to prove oneself without so much as having heard a single word of hers. She would have made a terrifyingly effective noblewoman, had she been born to right-blooded quel’dorei. For a long moment, it did not even touch Kael’thas’ mind that the priestess was, in truth, rather a more average example of her kind than many of the sentinels. A foot shorter than them, and though certainly physically impressive, nowhere near their peak of prowess. It simply did not matter.

“The Princess Kael’thas Sunstrider, she says,” the black-haired sentinel said. “Here to meet the High Priestess.”

That simple voice came over Kael’thas’ shoulder, breaking her out of her most undignified staring at the priestess. Made a heated core of indignation flare to life in her chest, warming her cheeks. A Princess did not assert her title, or status, for having to do so was proof that it was an empty thing, a kind of social pantomime which could be dismantled. The death knell of the thing, somehow, was to have to prove it. So, she said nothing, keeping her eyes on the Captain, who appeared on the cusp of replying when the priestess raised a hand, placing it upon the Captain’s right forearm. A few fingers touching, nothing more, but enough to stop the grand warrior, instantly.

“She is the Princess, sister,” the priestess said. She deigned to smile at Kael’thas, but did not bow, did not otherwise acknowledge the royal station, in spite of clearly knowing it. “The High Priestess did not expect proceedings to start already. Have the meetings been moved up?”

“I am here to meet with the High Priestess, personally,” Kael’thas said. Somehow, the dignity she had been able to infuse into those words when they were no more than thoughts refused to keep to the marriage once they passed her lips, and so, she felt, finally, rather more the petulant child she had spent the last few decades leaving behind. “The official schedule remains unchanged.”

The sentinel Captain, yet to say a word, took a long, slow breath. Evidently hesitant to so much as speak, even when the priestess paused momentarily to think. To formulate her response. She remained pacified, not quite electrified, but unwilling to move a muscle as long as the pale, white priestess kept those fingers upon her forearm. Kael’thas imagined her response would have been much the same, and though she had ostensibly come to be that same sort of pacified creature, save in the High Priestess’ arms, not this mere priestess’, she nevertheless felt slow-growing admiration. An emotion difficult to classify. Had one of her handmaidens, guards, or noble courtiers tried to do something similar to her back in Silvermoon, she would have been infuriated. Why, then, did it seem natural now, with the tall sentinel?

“The High Priestess does not expect you,” the priestess said. Bone-white, glowing eyes settled on Kael’thas’, burying into her. All-knowing, appraising, but without the weight of judgment. “But I suspect she will want to see you, still, Princess.” Without so much as raising her head to look at the Captain, the priestess finished: “She may pass.”

Behind Kael’thas, the black-haired sentinel shrank away, and, after swallowing, after bowing her head and exhaling like a great saber cat disappointed in the incomprehensible ways of the world, the Captain turned her attention back to Kael’thas. “Princess. If you would come with me.”

Sparing a look at the priestess, who seemed to understand perfectly well what Kael’thas had come to the camp to do, and yet displayed no outward signs of judgment, not a single movement of a muscle, Kael’thas moved on. Past. Into the camp, its ethereal arms closing around, behind, such that the outside world, the prospect of disobeying her father, of Silvermoon’s potential disapproval at her indulging hedonism, shrank away. Around her, a heady, overpowering atmosphere settled, immaterial, and yet suppressing of what her handmaidens and guards would have termed better judgment. She no longer cared. Too close to her quarry to turn back. Safely ensconced within a camp of people who seemed not to care that, tearing away comforting veils and misdirection, she had come to be claimed by their High Priestess.

The Captain left her three steps from the entrance to the grand, central tent of the camp, between the heavily armed and armored twin sentinels stood guard there, offering the barest bow of her head in recognition. No words were exchanged, not between the Captain and the guards, and certainly not between the Princess and any of them, and so, she entered the tent by moving the flap aside herself, rather than having it held, and managed but a glimpse, a flash of the interior before she was seized.

What precisely happened, she did not register. One moment, the flap still falling into place behind her, she was upright. The next, her hands and arms captured behind her back, a heavy, organic weight imposed itself upon her prone form, her features acquainted very closely with the soft, midnight blue carpet covering the bare ground. Her shoulders strained, and by mere reflex, she tried to raise her head to complain, but found a large hand had grasped her head, and held it down. With her lips forced to kiss the ground, she could not even, clearly, articulate what a mistake they were making, and so, she was at the mercy of whichever hulking creature had taken hold and control of her. Interminably long seconds passed.

At last, she was hauled up from the ground, feeling heat and ache radiating from a few spots where she would no doubt bruise. Strong, gloved hands held hers behind her back, still, one broad arm crossing her chest, holding her close to a towering figure that she realized, obviously, was kaldorei.

“Spy?”

It was another voice, another person than the one holding her. A sentinel clad in armor much like that of the two outside stepped into view before her, looking down at her with hard eyes. Along the bridge of her nose. Which had to have been broken at least once, if not thrice. The sentinel repeated that one word, this time at Kael’thas, not at the sentinel holding her, and when there was no response, the Princess too astonished, too shocked by the brutish behavior, by the clear misunderstanding, to answer in a satisfying way, or at all, the warrior actually raised her right hand. As if she were about to backhand a Sunstrider. An unthinkable action, hung, crystallized, in an eternal moment.

“Halt,” said a steady, confident voice.

Its source, somewhere off to Kael’thas’ right, was out of view. But, much like the Captain outside when the priestess had but touched her arm, the two sentinels ceased, and seemed chastised without a word of reproach save that first one to make them stop. They did not release her, but neither did that smack of her cheek ever land. An armored kaldorei hand landing against the delicate cheek of quel’dorei royalty would have been a disaster, and not just in a diplomatic sense. Kael’thas did not know whether the much larger, stronger night elves truly understood their comparative strength, certainly when faced with someone who had not dedicated their life to physical prowess.

“Release her,” the voice said. “Leave us.”

The guards did not question. Almost mechanically, as if the mere sound of that voice turned them into marionettes, they let go of Kael’thas, turned to bow off to the right, and then pushed the flap momentarily open to leave. And so, alone, Kael’thas was allowed, at last, to turn and lay her eyes upon the person she had sought, and struggled to meet, in spite of prohibitions, flaunting logic and propriety. The High Priestess, Tyrande Whisperwind.

In that moment, the High Priestess was not focused on her royal visitor, but rather on unbuckling and discarding pale, silver-filigree-covered bracers, setting them down atop other pieces of ceremonial armor. A disorderly pile, which slid further into a mess when weighed down by those additional bits. Not that Kael’thas’ attention was on that carelessness.

Towering, like the sentinel Captain, with shoulders and back bared, displaying lean, toned muscle mass. Long, green hair, which Kael’thas recalled as always captured in twin braids, now hanging more freely down the High Priestess’ back, draping pristine skin. Emphasizing her powerful frame, strong, sharp facial features. Contrasting the shine of eyes of a blue that the Princess had never seen herself, only had portrayed for her in paintings. The depths of upturned icebergs, infinite. Quite unlike the regal, cold statue of a woman outside, Tyrande was alive, and vibrant. Her skin a healthy purple, the glow of her eyes mirrored by twin, fist-sized gemstones inset in the silvery, decorative sash on her front.

“I remember the last time I came here,” Tyrande said. Her attention, slowly, turned to the Princess. “When you were on the cusp of adulthood, accompanying your father. How interested you were in our kind. In me.”

Kael’thas failed to catch herself, to stop herself from taking a breath which made her chest rise. She trapped her lower lip between her teeth for a moment, an unguarded gesture, her eyes devouring the bared skin, the artful curves of loose, white cloth that covered much, and yet made the mind wonder as to what it hid. Tyrande’s words infiltrated the Princess’ mind only slowly, and, to her great shame, all her eloquence fled her in that moment.

“I thought… you might be... lonely, High Priestess,” she near stammered, stopping and starting, daring to raise her eyes to Tyrande’s, the priestess turning towards her, taking a step closer. Causing another breath, halting in Kael’thas’ throat.

“You thought you might weave your way past, in-between the diplomatic talks. Do something as a precursor to the renewal of bonds between our peoples,” Tyrande said. “You thought to get to know me better.”

Kael’thas nodded, enthusiastically, her eyes nevertheless descending down the chiseled, lean form of the High Priestess. Dwelling only briefly on the pleasant curve of muscle, here and there, on defined abs, an excess of physical training which no noblewoman of Silvermoon would indulge in. Why not? She might have cared more for them, then. Instead, she went to the source of that desire. Swallowed, as her eyes fell further. Tyrande did not wear the long, loose, painfully white religious garb – not in the privacy of the tent, at least, and so, the thing which the Princess had, often shamefully, imagined sinking into her could be spied, among the shadows, in the low, blue light. The absolutely absurdly girthy shaft, held to the High Priestess’ densely muscled, right thigh by the restraining force of two broad, soft-looking, purple and silver bands of cloth.

“Renewal of… bonds,” Kael’thas repeated, lamely, tearing her eyes away from that obscene, savage display – something no one in Silvermoon would ever have dared, certainly not in so casual, unprompted a way. But the kaldorei did not suffer from the same inhibitions as the quel’dorei. Rarely did they display themselves as brazenly as the High Priestess did in that moment, but then, clearly, she had not expected visitors, and what was an individual so blessed to do with their excess in the comfort and privacy of their own home? Hide it away from prying eyes that ought not linger anyway?

Not that Kael’thas’ gaze needed to linger. Even in the low light of a shimmering basin, of an endlessly circling, naked flame on the opposite side of the tent’s interior, she saw more in that moment when her eyes caressed Tyrande’s mighty, tree-trunk shaft than she would need to recall painstaking detail for the next many months. It was unsurprising that someone like the High Priestess should be so endowed – an appropriate echo, an accompaniment of the transparent power and authority which rested, always, in her. In her shadow. In her piercing gaze, which Kael’thas felt to have transfixed her. Locked her in place. She tried again to speak, expressing herself never previously a problem, but found that words did not rise to be seized and spoken. Renewal of bonds. That was all that came to mind.

Stood opposite one-another, three feet, perhaps less, apart, Kael’thas drowned in the High Priestess’ gaze. Felt herself enveloped by the scents of a foreign place, which swallowed the well-known, eternal summer of Eversong. Ancient forest in rain, wet bark, fertile ground. A feeling and idea of crisp, cool water upon her tongue, focusing her attention upon it further, so that the world around her shrank to less than nothing. Only that which she could see and hear existed, the quiet sounds of kaldorei outside, and, much more immediately, the sight and quiet breaths of the towering, exquisite woman before her. Kael’thas tried to recoil from the embrace which felt almost not there at all, and yet pulled her down. Down. To step back, in her mind, if not physically, to expand her senses once again. They would not. Even her lungs seemed unwilling to move, and so, she had to drag a breath in, kicking and screaming, her chest rising. Had Tyrande been a predator, the Princess would have been ideal prey. Trapped, fallen into hypnotic, swiftly forgotten moments in which nothing but her and the High Priestess existed.

Tyrande stepped closer. A silent, graceful movement, one that stirred the surface of that still moment, but did not fundamentally disturb it. Brash fingers, used to the quill, but used to weapons, to tools, pressed up beneath the Princess’ chin, tilting her head upwards, backwards, just so. An unthinkably brazen thing to do to a royal of Quel’thalas, and yet not one Kael’thas thought to correct, her attention caught in the pull of Tyrande’s presence, her breathing slow, deep. Cheeks tingled, and, almost, the anxious lump in her chest had withered to nothing, near forgotten, until the Princess’ gaze fell to the lips of the High Priestess. For reasons unknown, for reasons she would not acknowledge in that moment, the churning mass of feathers and steel wire regained some life, then. Kael’thas swallowed, her tongue pushing out to wet her lips.

She did not expect, and yet was not surprised, when Tyrande’s thumb moved up to settle against her lips. Bent, just so, in order to make room, to push past and bump gently against perfect teeth.

“We will get to know one-another better,” Tyrande said, her voice still that same forceful, stable thing, enveloping the moment as much as enveloped by it. “Does your father know?”

Kael’thas shook her head. And, in the process, though she had not intended it, freed her lips of the High Priestess’ thumb. “He does not. And… would not approve, if he did.”

“An act of rebellion, then, Princess.”

It was a troubling thing to be seen through, and one that the Princess had not foreseen. She had been possessed, strong-willed, eager to do precisely what her emotions instructed her to, and so, ended up in the clutches of an imposing, statuesque night elf, the worthiest, the strongest. Precisely the kind of woman who would understand the position Kael’thas had put herself in, by leaving her place. Disobeying meant she had put her faith and trust in the High Priestess’ reaction, and placing such hopes in someone gave them a great deal of power. Made it quite easy for them to take advantage.

When Tyrande lowered her head an inch, it became clear that there was a desire to take advantage, but in a way that Kael’thas had wanted. Still desired, even if, having placed herself in the grasp of the High Priestess, it seemed rather more of a frightening, tenuous thing than her stormy heart had convinced her it would be. Skilled as a mage she might be, but surrounded by Tyrande, and her handmaidens, sentinels, camp followers, it would be a difficult, if not impossible, situation to work oneself out of, should she want to work herself out of it.

The silence that followed allowed the High Priestess to once more place her thumb upon Kael’thas’ lips, and to press between them. Allowed the kaldorei to turn the Princess’ head, first to the left, then the right, as if inspecting livestock at the market. For a moment, it seemed half plausible that Kael’thas might soon find her mouth pried open, her teeth checked. She swallowed, and pressed her tongue to the tip of that finger, both so as to caress it, but also to carefully, respectfully, push it back out of her mouth. She had, at last, recovered enough from the presence of the tall, lean woman before her to begin shaping thoughts into words. Into actions.

“I am not here to renew bonds, High Priestess,” Kael’thas said. She raised both hands to wrap around one of Tyrande’s wrists, not to trap it, but to near plaintively hold it aloft as she spoke. “I am here because you are the one being in this kingdom who I might imagine myself a suitable partner for.”

“More suitable than—”

“More suitable. I am not asleep. I am not an ocean away. I am here, and I wish for us to develop an understanding. I wish for you to… to… teach,” Kael’thas said. She applied a longing gaze up at the High Priestess as she found the last word, transmitting as much sexual need with it as she could possibly channel into such a simple, unsuited thing. “Please.”

In control enough to accept the rebuke of the Princess’ tongue against her finger, upon the conclusion of Kael’thas’ little confessional speech, Tyrande pressed her thumb back in. Not quite probing, not quite gentle, any longer, settling it with the first knuckle between Kael’s lips, resting there, and then languidly probing deeper. A slow, meticulous, ceaseless invasion – not a fight, in any sense of the word. The High Priestess expected to be obeyed, expected that her desires be wordlessly and immediately acquiesced to, and, indeed, the Princess offered no real resistance. Only that which might be pleasant, prolonging the sinking of that digit into her maw, until it felt as if half of Tyrande’s palm had been let in behind it. If the night elf desired it, she could have extended the thumb and settled it into Kael’thas’ throat.

The two stood together, thus, in the near darkness of the tent, the Princess’ hands still feebly wrapped around the High Priestess’ wrist. Not to guide, nor to hinder. For something, anything, to hang on to. A rock, a comfort – the illusion of one. She breathed through her nose, her lips stretched around Tyrande’s thumb, and the side of her hand, tasting little, only the faintest hint of metal, far away. The lavender scent of the kaldorei’s most recent bath oils, perhaps. Searing, deeply blue eyes bored into her, and held her in place much more effectively than any grip of her could have. Kael’thas breathed in again, her body seeming to forget how to, halfway, and so her chest jumped at the halting gasp.

Again, the world had contracted around her. Gotten smaller, receded. Both? One or the other. Both, at once, did not make sense. Her mind refused to set aside the attention and thought to parse even such basic, nonsensical things into something real. It was focused, utterly, upon the sharp, stern gaze of the High Priestess. A gaze that immobilized her, and then proceeded to roam her body, inspecting, appraising. The summer dress, rumpled by a night in the forest, by being roughed up by the High Priestess’ guards, nevertheless left little to the imagination. Or, rather, it suggested the slim, supple form in a way Kael’thas knew to elevate it beyond the real in the minds of her admirers. A fact she used to wield for influence, but now desperately hoped would entice and urge on the onlooker to action.

Tyrande raised her other hand, fingers curled, the back of them caressing the Princess’ cheek. A possessive, and yet comforting gesture. Reassurance blossomed in her belly, a feeling that she had made the right choice, that Tyrande would take advantage only to the extent that her taking advantage was desired. A skilled lover, receptive to the needs of her partners, no doubt.

Fingers slipped upwards, and curled into Kael’thas’ blonde hair. Not to stroke, not to comfort, but to take control. Seizing thick locks, many gathered strands, trapped in that purple hand, sticking out between the digits at odd angles. By the power of that grip, the Princess raised her head yet further, not to look the High Priestess in the eyes, for that she had already been able to do. No, apparently, what was desired was that she bare her throat. Insistent tug of her hair or no, she would have done as directed. The mere fact that the towering, chiseled High Priestess dared to act, dared to treat her this way, had imparted a particular, pleasant kind of weakness, warmth, in her, one that required no thought to determine that subservience to this woman was the natural, right choice.

Each touch, no matter how much it ought to enrage her, to cause scandal, sent ripples, waves of heat through her, emanating from the precise point at which skin met skin. Her cheeks burned crimson, and though she knew it impossible, the tingling convinced her mind that she rivaled the bright red of the dress. It did not matter. She wanted the High Priestess to see. What would have been embarrassment in every other situation was no more than honesty, just then.

The thumb withdrew from her mouth, her saliva clinging to it, a singular, slowly drooping rope of it eventually breaking, splattering, painting her pristine chin in a manner most uncouth. Kael’thas might have reached for it, tried to wipe it clean, but the opportunity was taken from her. Still with a hand wrapped in her hair, slowly looping it around those fingers, Tyrande took a hold of the Princess’ face, by her chin. By her jaw. An actual hold. Incredulous, and yet finding that she continued to breathe heavily, mute save those revealing, thick gasps, Kael’thas tensed only just as the grip settled in. Spittle-coated thumb found its place digging into one cheek, while the other four fingers caved in the other.

“Girl,” Tyrande said, having allowed a few seconds to pass.

Kael’thas knew that she ought to heed the violent impulse within to correct, to rebel against such denigrating language, targeted at her. It was inconceivably arrogant, and insulting, and yet, it rose to no more than piqued curiosity. It fastened her interest, her attention upon the High Priestess, all the more. There was no explanation, no way in which it made sense. Nevertheless, saying what no one else would have dared, doing what no one else would have done, Tyrande only built the tension within Kael’thas chest, anxiety rearing its head once more, somewhere beneath her sternum. She parted her lips, her teeth, and so, those fingers sank in further, solidifying their hold of her face.

“Yes?”

“Yes, High Priestess,” Tyrande said.

“Yes, High Priestess,” Kael’thas said, awkwardly. Struggling, speaking carefully around the fingers pressing her own cheeks in between her teeth.

“Good.”

However minimal that praise, Kael’thas was not allowed even a moment to savor it, the acceptance of the moniker of ‘girl’ apparently the trigger to move things along. She managed only to snap one breath, a hasty gasp, and then the High Priestess pulled her forward. Not by a hand, or by a push to her back. By the grip of her hair, and the hold of her face, she was induced to stumble forward, purple fingers unyielding, moving her along next to Tyrande, aimed in the general direction of the chaise that seemed to serve as bed, too.

It should have been terribly indecent, and denigrating, and, perhaps, it was. From an outside perspective, she imagined, it might look like the Princess was reduced to no more than a stumbling, stuttering plaything for a cocky kaldorei who presumed too much, and yet got away with it. So it was, perhaps. The king might have been right in warning her away, given what she now faced down, but the single, incontrovertible fact of her desire remained. A beacon. A foundation upon which everything else could be built. The High Priestess exuded dangerous power, and yet, the sensation of laying below her, protected, warm, crushed comfortably beneath her, manifested before such a thing had happened.

Kael’thas ached for nothing so simple, so complicated, as being the partner to the prime, physical specimen of the kaldorei, to be the one to tempt her into cavorting with the quel’dorei, to be the target of her affection, even the base, feral, physical. No doubt, the High Priestess would require absolute commitment, flexibility, sacrifice, and, even with her mind shaping vague depictions of what that would involve, what it would feel like, she found only a pulsing, primal need for it. Not a moment’s revulsion.

She found her footing again, properly, just as they came to a stop before the chaise, and so, still physically directed, she could nevertheless sit on its edge with some minor dignity, fingers slipping their grip of her cheeks and chin, releasing her hair, allowing her to turn. To find her face at the perfect level with where the base of the High Priestess’ massive, fat cock seemed to be, prompting the thought that she might simply be sat down as she was, and then made to take that monster into her mouth, and throat, until her lips sealed around the final, fattest inch of it. A monumental, cruel task, and yet, there was no finer way to demonstrate her complete commitment. To Tyrande’s pleasure. To the play they put on, so that they might both weave reality into something else, until it ceased to be a play. Until feeling powerful throbs of orgasm in her throat might genuinely have replaced any selfish desire she had with the need to sate the High Priestess.

Kael’thas swallowed, finding her mouth had begun producing more saliva. She wet her lips, and then swallowed again, and looked up at those blessedly blue, luminous eyes. Far up, so as to determine what was desired of her. She found, in the High Priestess slight smile, in the softness of the caress of her cheek, the backs of a few folded fingers stroking it, that her mere obedience was all that was desired in that moment.

“What do you want, girl?”

Kael’thas found the reply natural in a frightening sense. It rose within, unformed, and yet passed her lips with ease, unmoderated. “To please you, High Priestess.”

“How do you imagine I might be pleased?”

“With my lips around the base of you,” Kael’thas said.

Color rose to her cheeks, somehow deepening what she had thought already at an apex of heat. Even had her thoughts occasionally circled around such actions in the long wait, the slow decades, they had always been safely locked within the playground of her mind, where such things rested comfortably. Where the weight of saying them seemed lighter. Here, they were anything but, and yet she found herself saying them anyway. She wanted the High Priestess pressed up against her, bottomed out. Not for the mechanical back and forth motion, but for the closeness. The union with someone so exquisite. Who understood her desires, and did not judge them. Who indulged them. She nodded so very faintly, a motion surely only barely sensed by the High Priestess, as if her words had not been enough. She wished to serve.

Tyrande’s fingers continued the caress in a downward arc, the back of index and middle finger resting upon Kael’thas lips. The thumb, a whisper of moisture, perhaps the Princess’ own spittle, still to be felt there. A ghost, imagined, or real? She did not know. The notion disappeared from her mind as the thumb settled on the tip of her nose, and pressed down, slowly.

“Are you sure this is what you desire, girl?”

Again, Kael’thas nodded. Her eyes sank down over the High Priestess’ body, and she wished already then to be its subject. To lie beneath it, to suffer the impact of its movements. To be locked safely under its inescapable rhythms, and thrusts, and power. Tyrande’s obscene girth was something she longed to contend with, to ache for, if only to allow the High Priestess blessed release. To know that it was with her, no one else, not the kaldorei’s own hand – her, Princess Kael’thas Sunstrider, who called forth and took within her the no doubt flooding waves of the woman’s orgasm.

“I have wanted no one else, High Priestess” Kael’thas said, at last, breathless despite not having moved.

“Good,” Tyrande said, again.

The fingers on her lips, on her nose, on her face, possessive, guiding, led her to shuffle backwards, further onto the chaise, and then to turn. For a long moment, she knew not what she was being directed to do, but saw, then, and lifted her feet from the ground and up onto the cushioned lounging chair, leaning her back down on it. The High Priestess wished unobstructed access, wished not just to be serviced, but to ensure the predictable conclusion. Wished, quite clearly, to show the Princess the physical prowess of the kaldorei. Kael’thas settled her shoulders against the bottom edge of the chaise, letting her head lower over it, until the back of her skull more sensed than touched the cushioning on the side. The world turned upside down, she watched the strong thighs of the High Priestess maneuver into position.

In order to be able to thrust smoothly, Tyrande would have to kneel. She did not do so immediately, however, instead placing herself so close to the Princess, to the chaise, that knees bumped up against the lounging chair on either side of Kael’thas’ head. Between them, she might have been able to have a certain view, and there was a sense of mass from those massive, weighty balls above. The bulk of her attention was taken up by the crude, first touch of that colossal shaft, however, the High Priestess shifting so that its soft, smoothly-veined skin ground against delicate, royal facial features, allowing direct contact. Allowing the Princess to feel the steady thumping that slowly grew the beast from merely monstrous and thick to truly immense, over the course of many, powerful heartbeats.

Still contained by those twin, wide bands of cloth, stretchy enough to imprison the monstrosity despite its consistent but leisurely approach towards full glory, the High Priestess could conceivably still back out, and so might Kael’thas. Neither had placed irrevocable touches upon the other, only things that could, ostensibly, be considered accidental with the right frame of mind forced upon it. The feeling of hard, slowly pulsing, warm cock against her face suppressed those thoughts in the Princess’ mind, however. She had turned her face just so, but did not yet lean in, nor did she try to press her lips to the behemoth. In long, quiet moments, where both breathed, where the hushed movements of the tent in the wind still concealed them, Kael’thas kept one eye closed, heart beating in her throat as the High Priestess’ heavy, fat shaft impressed heat upon her cheek, nose, and one eyebrow.

Well above and behind that monster, huge, hefty nuts hung, each well beyond even one of Tyrande’s own fists, and certainly more than Kael’thas could easily handle without making use of both hands. Why did her attention stray to those twins, just then, when the steadily breathing High Priestess placed far more immediate pressures on her attention? The Princess’ mind cleaved in twain, one part of it still immersed in the pleasant, intense warmth pulsed into her cheek, the other casting itself into a future in which those fat balls rested against her, emptying, emptied into her. The danger inherent in such a union – the kaldorei could, apparently, sire children with their cousin race, the quel’dorei. A scandal lay in way in those weighty nuts, a threat of one, and yet not one that Kael’thas thought to quell by abandoning the position she had willingly allowed herself to be hauled into.

“Remove the restraints,” Tyrande said.

The High Priestess’ voice flecked with intensity of emotion, a cracking of restraint, perhaps. Well-known for being brash, for daring to take action that many among her kin contemplated and debated and speculated about instead, did she even consider what the consequences of coupling with Princess Sunstrider might be? Evidently not, as she shifted just so, allowing that huge, fat cockshaft a slightly different angle, so that Kael’thas’ lips brushed against it. Barely, but, nevertheless, contact was made.

Without thinking, then, Kael’thas rose, raised her head, turned, that simple prompting immediately seeing a reply. She did not think, she acted only as her body wished her to – as the formless, all-encompassing presence in her mind, herself, and yet not quite the same self as that which carried on internal monologue, wordlessly urged her to. Soft, endlessly cared-for lips smoothly squashed just so, gently, against a little spot upon the side of that monstrously fat, purple shaft. A second kiss, then, breath spilling from her nostrils to spread over smoothly-veined, pliant skin, covering that increasingly steely cock.

Kael’thas raised hands which had never failed her, had maintained surety and steadiness at every turn, had woven complicated runic patterns, had commanded magical power difficult to comprehend for many, and found them to nevertheless tremble. Fingertips settled against the behemoth, just above that lowest-set of the two bands that kept it held to the High Priestess’ thigh, curling in beneath it. Little room remained, could be found, the girth of that shaft having near exhausted the ability for the fabric to stretch and stay in one piece, but she managed, still. Without any buckles, any mechanism save friction to keep the cloth in place, it followed her pull downwards relatively readily, only bunching up behind the ridge of the crown of the High Priestess’ shaft, where it resisted for a few seconds, until Kael’thas managed to tug it past that, too.

It was difficult to imagine the High Priestess overburdened by so gentle a system of containment, but, regardless, she exhaled a slow sigh of relief as that first cloth band came loose, slipping down to settle around her ankle, allowing her to lift her foot to step free of it, kicking it a few feet aside. Kael’thas, unprompted, but nevertheless feeling as if it was the right thing to do, a reward for good behavior, for keeping still while she maneuvered the both of them closer to the union they sought, once more pressed her lips to the side of Tyrande’s fat cock. Shamelessly holding that meeting between the two, the supposed damsel in distress and the metaphorical dragon capturing her, rather than knight come to save her, she deposited both a faint indication of lipstick, and an elliptical patch of saliva on it. Leaning back, then, she reached up to repeat the same motion she had just completed, only with the inner cloth band.

Again, though it seemed a rather gentle way to keep herself contained, the High Priestess expressed audible relief at being free, shifting while she exhaled, dragging that thick, wide cockhead across Kael’thas shoulder, up the side of her neck, to her throat, after which it settled around her collarbone, its entire path now painted with Tyrande’s thick, half-translucent, blessed seed. A strange substance which the Princess could clearly sense was imbued with power, or perhaps had seen power leak into it, half pearly white, half luminescent silvery-blue.

As time wore on, as Kael’thas’ lips anxiously pressed against that wide cumvein presented to them, cushioning it, encouraging it with some worry, she found that what had been steady, pumping beats allowing that mammoth shaft to find its full, obscenely girthy size turned towards producing a continual stream of thumb-sized beads of cum. The weight, the width resting against her chest was, in some sense, almost comfortable. Made her feel as if she laid beneath an oddly-shaped blanket, but one that somehow pulsed thickly-flowing cum directly against her skin, forming a little pool which soon overflowed in its awkward lake upon her, flanked by that enormous cock-crown, running, in twin rivulets, towards either side of the Princess’ throat.

The comfort of being beneath the High Priestess steady presence could last only so long. That was to say, she could have rested under Tyrande for many more minutes, the steady heat of the thick, consistent drops a comfort, rather than something that revolted her. She knew, in some distant part of her mind, that perhaps it ought to make her reject the position, and what was done to her, but even as that sluggish, sticky pool against her skin rose enough to begin soaking the top of her dress, Kael’thas still could not find it within her to object.

It would offer her no physical pleasure to do so, and yet, her mind circled, fell ever down a whirlpool to the same place, around the thought of instead pressing her lips to the tip of the High Priestess’ colossal, weighty cock-crown. Not to experience any mind-altering state, no matter how blessed the woman was, carrying the power of her goddess with her everywhere she went, in every moment, radiating it with every tiny movement. It was the right thing to do. The natural next step. It was what she should do for this towering, perfect being, and so, Kael’thas reached up to place delicate fingers on either side of the slow curve of that monster, not to lift it, nor to shift it, for she did not know if she could, only to stroke backwards, slowly, to try to indicate to Tyrande that she wished for more. To do more.

A drooping, wide strand of thick seed followed that broad, hefty cockhead as it moved but a few inches back up, the High Priestess shifting backwards to allow Kael’thas’ lips first to press up beneath the behemoth’s head, dotting encouraging, swift kisses there as it moved. Until, at long last, the Princess received her unspoken wish, a kiss expanding into a circular embrace of that monster’s tip, just enough that each steady pumping sent its fat, potent drop into her mouth, rather than onto her skin. She closed her eyes, then, and let the heartbeats pulse more, and more into her maw, until it threatened to overfill. Until her cheeks bulged with it, until little strands slipped from her lips around that wide crown. She swallowed, then, at last, her mouth thoroughly taken over by the sweet taste, by the hint of something heated and metallic, which ever dove beneath the surface. Reinforced again, and again, even as she indulged in immediately drinking down those fat, sweltering drops as they were granted to her, a warm sensation settling in her chest as the power of Tyrande’s goddess seemed to find a home within Kael’thas.

Finally, and yet too soon, the High Priestess took a knee before the Princess, and then the other. For a long moment, that weighty, fat shaft slipped Kael’thas’ lips, warm skin hiding frighteningly hard, steely muscle moving across her face once more. Against an eyebrow, nose, over lips, pushing downwards further still. Only, when Tyrande found her place on the floor, the process reversed, and so the Princess was treated to the journey in reverse. As if her face was a satisfactory thing to grind against. Not that she would have blamed the High Priestess for such a notion, but she wished for more. For something deeper, and more vulnerable. A closer, unquestionable conquest. The anxiety within had been quelled by those steady, fat drops of seed, swallowed down over the course of minutes, and so, all that remained was the will to show Tyrande a reason more overpowering than any other to maintain diplomatic relations with the quel’dorei.

When that broad, languidly pulsing cockhead came to rest against Kael’thas lips again, it was with another intention. Clear from the beginning. It was not to endlessly laze upon the pillow of her lips, but rather to work into her mouth, no matter how preposterous such a notion might seem, given the physical differences between kaldorei and quel’dorei. She still offered it a long, almost sorrowful kiss goodbye, reasoning that it would be many, hard minutes until she saw the behemoth again, and could adequately convey her devotion to Tyrande through it.

“Breathe deep, girl,” Tyrande said.

That lingering kiss expanded even as Kael’thas took a breath through her nose, and then another, and another, trying to pack as much away as she could before it was made an impossibility. To prepare was impossible, regardless, the effort required merely to fit that mammoth cockhead into her mouth likely to force the air from her lungs multiple times over. And yet, she tried. For the High Priestess. She breathed in, and she opened her mouth, her delicate nose scrunching, her eyes closing, brows lowered just so, the sides of her mouth aching with her effort to welcome that tree-trunk cock in. And, predictably, the beast was too grand for her to welcome it so. Tyrande’s hands, calm, firm, stable, settled on either side of her head, thumbs curling around her cheeks, the rest of the fingers finding purchase in her hair, around the base of her ears.

A slow, pleased exhalation from the High Priestess accompanied the first push. Something not quite a thrust, but more than merely leaning forward, it helped to push Kael’thas’ lips apart just a little more. Secured a little more space between those lips for that huge, fat dick, making the Princess grimace all the more with the effort, with the unnatural gape her mouth was forced into, and yet seeing her lean into those steady hands. The constant, secure grip, from which she did not seek escape, but rather sought refuge in, from a world which had wished that she deny the impulse that had lead her to them. Criminal. The thought rose, and was then dashed from her mind with another push forward from Tyrande, the Princess’ lips slipping a little further across smooth skin, welcoming more of that colossal cock-crown within her maw. She had been meant to breathe deep, and yet, air rushed in and out of her nostrils every moment.

Kael’thas pushed her tongue up underneath the vast, wide cockhead slowly pressing into her mouth, providing the High Priestess the welcome she so richly deserved. Urging her thus, quietly, physically, onward. It seemed to work, keeping the kaldorei as excited as she had been the last many minutes, those thick drops of seed continuing to pearl and pulse from her, directly into the Princess’ mouth, where they had precious few moments until she swallowed them. Greedy to prove herself to Tyrande, who seemed rather more occupied with her firm grip of Kael’thas’ head, and a slow rocking back and forth, always more forward, in order to make the girl’s lips and mouth take in that overpowering, thick kaldorei girth. An inch, at first. And then a second. Another push, a rocking forward, smooth, if not quite gentle, and then a third inch was secured. Stretching the Princess’ lips open, her mouth gaping as she had never imagined possible.

Without the sense that the High Priestess was actively trying to compress her, lock her in place, Kael’thas nevertheless felt the back of her head sink into the cushioning of the chaise, pressed, slowly, from the force of Tyrande’s inexorable efforts, until there was no more give left. Until the fabric had hardened around and beneath her, so that the only thing left was for her maw to widen just so, a fraction more, allowing that mammoth kaldorei cock another little inroad. Enough that, at long last, those continually flowing, fat drops of seed no longer had to be swallowed, no longer had to run in a languid rivulet, to reach the Princess’ throat, nor to roll down into it. Desperate, swift gasps, bursts of air from her nose that rose up to caress underneath the High Priestess’ shaft, around that wide cumvein, marked what would no doubt be the last moments of free breathing for a significant while, Kael’thas clawing air into her lungs even as she felt the torturously slow progress close the last of the way in.

Finally, an unsuccessful breath choked off by its positioning, Tyrande’s massively fat cockhead slipped into place, sliding down until the opening of the Princess’ throat clamped shut around it. The welcome was heated, Kael’thas’ musculature working, steadily pumping, laboring against the behemoth to no avail. And, no matter how much she willed herself to relax, her body continued to betray her in precisely that same way. Tyrande’s girthy shaft ground, pushed an inch down, and was met by nothing other than rhythmic constriction. With saliva-bubbling, halting coughs, which blew small bubbles of spit from around where that girth still slowly, mercilessly ground into the girl’s mouth, past her straining lips. Her throat rose in a bulge only reluctantly, reflecting the High Priestess’ careful progress – careful conquest, perhaps, which did not first concern itself with hammering in to the hilt, but rather with ensuring that Kael’thas felt and savored every moment beneath the ruler of the kaldorei’s attentions.

Reflexively, the Princess’ arms rose, and though she had little physical power to prevent anything, her fingers and palms nevertheless found purchase against Tyrande’s strong thighs. As if to stop, to dwell on that conquest of but a few inches, was what Kael’thas most desired. She could not remember what she desired, but, when frantically moving one hand down to curl around the colossal cockbulge slowly progressing down her throat, the thought came to her again. Amid the terrible pressure, the choking, hacking noises, the bursts of spittle flung from her twitching lips as she worked to ensure that the High Priestess’ behemoth cock found a home within her, from the impenetrable, warm murk of her mind, she recalled again her desire. For Tyrande, one of the few beings worthy of taking a quel’dorei Princess, to do just that.

Kael’thas strained not to contain Tyrande’s mammoth shaft, nor to handle those slow, rolling movements, the brutal, continual pressure, but instead to arc her back. To curl her toes, her feet curving, all to support a feeble attempt at pushing back up against the High Priestess’ ceaseless, steady, conquering pressure. The slow, crushingly powerful rolls of those thighs, ever pushing more huge, fat inches of dick in. Not in violent, singular thrusts, but in merciless, continual moments of grinding pressure. Sinking, forcing that behemoth down the girl’s clenching, twitching throat. Inch, by inch, by colossal inch.

It was through the stable, solid, slow pulses of Tyrande’s heartbeat that Kael’thas reckoned time. The feeling of that colossus pumping with might, even as it progressed, as it crammed down her throat. By that measure, the Princess imagined she still had many pulses left until she might need to breathe, but not an infinite amount. Fifty, perhaps. One less, just then. And then another. Moments stolen, dissipating into the warm nothingness of her mind, a place that wanted her to think it red, and demanding, and wanted her fingers to curl into claws. Wanted her nails to dig into the densely-muscled thighs upon which they rested. Wanted the other hand to find Tyrande’s, wrapped around her head, in order to scratch and struggle and fight. She dulled that side of herself, not with a calming breath, but with the weight forced into her straining, small frame over the course of those few pulses. Beat down the internal, rising resistance, the desire to breathe, with no more than the frightfully solid, heavy presence of more immensely thick dick powering down her throat.

Though many moments had passed with steady, controlled progress, the way the High Priestess’ fingers curled, intensified their grip, the way those rolling movements became less smooth, indicated that there was an end to the control, even of someone so impressive as the tall, chiseled kaldorei above Kael’thas. Those pulsing moments passed all the faster, then, with what felt a first thrust, grinding, hammering a full inch of that behemoth in, when the cushioning behind the Princess’ head could offer no more. She moved her hand from her cockbulging throat, to the thigh which had been left without companionable fingers for so long, her stretched, aching lips letting slip another burst of bubbly spittle as she coughed around the enormous invader. And then repeated that cough at the next, hard thrust. How much was left? As impossibly, obscenely grand as the High Priestess was, there was an end to her.

Kael’thas fought to open her eyes, squeezed shut by the sheer pressure, by the grimace forced upon her delicate features so as to allow the High Priestess to fit into her face at all. Upside down, she could see twin handfuls of tree-trunk, thick inches of cock remaining, still, but also the slow approach of those steadily swinging, hefty nuts. Past the crackling darkness which imposed itself upon her vision and her mind, both. At once. Was the heated emptiness in her chest the source of that void, or her mind? Her eyes? She pressed her fingertips into the hard, powerful muscle beneath them without remembering giving them the command to do so, and yet, all that happened was a brutal thrust, ramming three inches of fat dick into her throat. Bringing the colossal root of that thick shaft all the closer, promising her the opportunity to seal a kiss around its base. A crude, needy thought, something she had never imagined anyone deserving of. No one but Tyrande, now.

Another hammerblow thrust, supplanting force into the Princess’ body, into her face, so that twin inches pushed in, and then another, much more slowly. The High Priestess’ weighty nuts swung forward to smack against Kael’thas’ forehead just so, at the apex of their movement, devoid of much force, but promising more. Soon enough. Something to be endured, in order to please Tyrande. As was the next, brutal thrust. Cramming, plowing fat dick into the Princess’ throat, another inch of that behemoth, her throat convulsing, lips sputtering as little bubbles of spittle burst around the monster, tantalizingly close to its hilt.

When the next thrust came, it pressed less than an inch of that massively thick shaft into Kael’thas mouth, and throat, the resistance too great to do much more than slowly, ceaselessly push cock in. Moment by moment, smooth, languidly pulsing dick caressed her lips as she slipped closer, and closer, the heft of those enormous nuts coming to rest against her scrunched up nose, and eyes, and forehead. Closer, and closer, the High Priestess no longer trying to conquer the girl’s maw by staccato thrusts, instead merely leaning into the inevitable. Another inch, and then, torturously slowly, another inch slipping in, the Princess’ lips pushing apart just slightly as she came to the very hilt of that monster, Tyrande’s sculpted, hard physique compressing her between the softness of the chaise and the steel of tense muscle.

No escape.

Again, rebellious lips, unruly throat, twitched, hacked, and tried in vain to free her of the colossus that made its overpowering shape known so very clearly. Trembling fingers pressed against Tyrande’s thighs, threatening to curl into claws in sudden, uncontrollable jerks of reflex which Kael’thas fought to rule. She fought to stay focused. Fought for something simple: To create a path through the pounding, dulling, red fog which had taken over her mindscape, allowing the slow, heavy, pleased breaths of the High Priestess through.

“Very good, Princess,” Tyrande said.

The words were distant, and, rudely, the Princess’ throat conspired against her deeply held devotion and respect by producing a loud, choked, glrk-like sound in the precise moment when her title was used. In a way that might have been denigrating, had it not passed the lips of a being such as Tyrande. From the High Priestess, any word, any measure of attention, was what mattered. It mattered more than the distance from Kael’thas’ nose, pushed up against those churning, fat kaldorei balls, and their warm, pleasant scent. It mattered more than the crushing of hard muscle against her face. It mattered more than the sense of stepping back from her own vision, from her senses, a distance growing within herself, one that screamed and clawed and squirmed to be channeled into a vicious fight to breathe. She held it, leashed it, instead rising up, just barely, as if she might envelop more, as if there were further inches of that monstrously fat cock for her to devour, to welcome in. There was no more.

Pressure on the sides of her head eased off. The sated, raw breaths from the exquisite kaldorei above her grew shallower, and ever so slightly more distant. Thick floods of throaty saliva emerged from her lips, drawn with the colossal inches of cock pulled from her mouth. Flashes of something happening, to her, drowned in a slipping in and out of contact with reality, those densely-muscled thighs moving away. Out of reach of her desperate, sluggish fingers, until that lazily pumping, massive shaft had withdrawn entirely, its head merely resting against the Princess’ lips. The Princess, whose body occupied itself with the most undignified, wretched, sobbing breaths, hissing, high-pitched, agonized, long moments, tens of seconds passing by until she regained continuous control of the reddish-brown mess of her mind, curtains drawn back onto a conquered, exhausted land.

“More, girl?”

It was the High Priestess. In her grace, in her steady, measured manner, controlling herself in spite of her reputation, refusing to charge ahead without the consent of those beneath her. And Kael’thas was just that, she knew. Physically, of course. Emotionally. Mentally. In the safe hands of someone who could take everything, and yet, someone who would take only what could be offered. With accursed weakness, she pursed her lips, and pressed a kiss to the tip of the High Priestess’ behemoth, and then nodded. Upside down, with cables and smeared masses of her own spit, of the continuously flowing seed of the kaldorei, upon her face. Ruining her refined features, reddening already from the pressure that had been laid against them when Tyrande had bottomed out – when Kael’thas had given her that deepest, most deserved, most subservient kiss. She nodded, again. Tried to speak, but failed, managing only an assenting sound.

Again, strong hands found their place, fingers settling on either side of her head. Her lips expanded from that lingering kiss, pressing apart until she gaped, and then went beyond that, aching until she came to worry that skin might split in the simple effort to wrap around the High Priestess’ broad cockhead. Only in that final moment, smooth crown exploiting, passing into that kiss, did the Princess process that she was enough. Just barely enough. Her maw slowly pried apart just a little further, so as to allow the raised ridge of that gracious, glorious cock-crown to secure its place inside her. Tyrande did not thrust, then, but applied pressure, once again conquering the opening of Kael’thas’ throat, once again able to allow those fat beads of cum to pearl and roll freely down into the royal, flat stomach.

But a few inches of that monster secured within the Princess’ throat, the High Priestess rammed a first thrust in, burying more than a handful of thick, throbbing inches, growing the swelling rise of the cockbulge, forcing from Kael’thas’ lips another burst of saliva. She did not care. She no longer cared – was blessedly free from caring. Freed not because Tyrande had remade what happened into something elegant, but because the debased was what the High Priestess deserved. Was what Kael’thas wished to give her, if she desired it. And so, she shook again, and cum-mixed spittle ran from her lips, into her nose. Up her cheeks, to her closed eyes. Split to separate streams, and recombined, and pushed past her eyebrows, and up her forehead and into her hair. Free, she thought, hammered once more back against the chaise, the brutal strength of the kaldorei employed in full, inches of that monstrously fat cock plowing into her throat. Free.

From the hard, rhythmic breaths that penetrated to Kael’thas’ reverent, sated mind and reached her conscious self, she knew that the High Priestess found precisely the kind of partner she had wanted for in a quel’dorei Princess. The fingers that shook as they raised themselves up to once more find their place against Tyrande’s thighs reflected that reverence, hands smoothing, stroking flat along powerful muscle, encouraging the effort that the High Priestess had begun to build towards. Rocking back and forth, just so, a fraction of an inch at a time. The beginning of a series of conquering thrusts.

Obscenely thick cock pounded down her throat, a handful of inches at a time. Used to the girth, to some small extent, the second passage down into the Princess was smoother, faster, a home already hammered, plowed into her, a place within that would never quite fit someone so grand as the High Priestess, but nevertheless one that suited her. That granted resistance, that granted choking, pulsing convulsions, that made Kael’thas’ throat produce those thick, bubbling expulsions, coating Tyrande’s behemoth as it rammed into her again. And again. Immensely fat inches taken in deeper, and deeper, building up a little rim, a small moat of clingy saliva which threatened to flow down over her features.

So it would have, that small stream, if not for the merciless High Priestess, the kind, the unceasing, the brutally exploitative, who rhythmically crammed more and more fat dick into Kael’thas, crushing tongue to the bottom of her mouth, the monster’s cruel girth making it difficult to ascertain whether she was actually pressing that tongue to the smoothly-veined, soft top of Tyrande’s tree-trunk cock, or was merely ground against. Another part of her to be used to offer and take pleasure, which being the case something the Princess could not be sure of. It did not matter. The back of her head pressed against the cushioning again, as she suffered another plunging, deep thrust. It did not matter. If she wished to give what the High Priestess took, was it taking at all? Was it not just working in unison for the pleasure of the grandest kaldorei?

Beneath Kael’thas’ chin, Tyrande’s thumbs met, her fingers settled along the sides of the girl’s head, curling around the back of her neck and scalp. It was that grip, assisted by hard, but shorter, staccato thrusts that helped secure the final, fattest inches of that monster in her maw, in her throat, once more. Weighty, churning nuts came to rest against, to smother her features, that clinging moat of spittle squashed as her lips settled around the base of the behemoth, stretched, aching, and yet rocking back and forth, trying to swallow more. Partially by Tyrande’s efforts, partially by Kael’thas’ own. That cum-mixed saliva moved, as her face was ground into, along her skin, coating her, making the connection between the High Priestess’ fat balls and her face more intimate still.

Carefully, acting, for a moment, as if she were shifting the egg-laden nest of a little bird with delicate fingers, Tyrande pulled two inches back from the union with Kael’thas’ now reddened, heated face. Her nose no longer squashed by firm muscle, she nevertheless kept her eyes closed, feeling a forest of thinning, drooping cables of pearly-white, bubbly, seed-laden spittle form between her and the High Priestess’ nuts. Rather than ram in again, bottoming out in the Princess’ face, Tyrande remained in place, breathing hard. The base of that monster pulsing, throbbing slowly, a predator with its prey in its maw already, savoring the kill. Allowing that mess of strands to elongate, to break, one by one. Splattering against Kael’thas’ face, re-coating her nose, her cheeks, her eyelids, her eyebrows and forehead and hair in that sluggishly-flowing mess.

Having allowed that to happen, seemingly almost having waited for each drooping line to break and drip and smear, Tyrande pressed those final, fattest inches back in, provoking another burst of effort from the Princess’ throat, reforming those broken strands anew. Conquering her face, her throat, once again, pressing steely, tense muscle against elegant, stained features, rising and falling to the tune of that steady, deep breathing.

“Good girl,” Tyrande said.

Kael’thas heard the words through a dull thrumming, as if from a distance busied with, filled with sound, indistinguishable, distracting without drowning out what was said. The High Priestess’ thumbs moved just so, a caress so gentle as to seem almost comical, given the brutal strength laid into the effort of conquering the Princess’ throat, moving two inches back and forth, back and forth, into her cockbulging, twitching form.

“Don’t disappoint yourself, now.”

Those words laid themselves upon her like a gossamer blanket, for a long moment. Wrapped her, and then infiltrated into her body, through her skin. She fought to still trembling fingers on the verge of beginning to push against the High Priestess’ thighs again, curled her toes, and squeezed her eyes shut all the harder. The heat within, born out of those words, gathered into a comfortable, warm ball of energy in her chest, occupying space she knew Tyrande had conquered and taken in one of those brutal thrusts. It stilled her mind, took, for a moment, the crackling, jittering energy of the emergency of not being able to breathe away, washing away the thought she should have had at being told something like that, by a foreigner. By a kaldorei. The Princess could not possibly disappoint such a creature. She could disappoint herself, by withdrawing, by surrendering, by not giving everything possible. By not allowing Tyrande to fuck her face and throat until she was done, by not allowing the High Priestess to pump her so full that her dress split open. Kael’thas rose, pushed against the chaise in order to move against, closer to, the hilt of that monster, the deepest kiss growing deeper still. Just a little.

As the moments wore on, she could not refuse reality. Could not deny that her muscles jerked, that tears welled from her closed eyes, that her whole body seemed to shake and twitch. That her fingers had turned, without conscious command, so as to dig nails into those powerful, purple thighs. Choked, undignified, quiet sounds, saliva flowing in little spurts to accompany them, emerged from her throat at rhythmic intervals, and yet, the thought of consciously fighting against the High Priestess was not allowed in. Kael’thas turned it away again, and again, even as it returned faster and with more urgency each time she did. It was not cruelty that drove Tyrande. She was giving opportunity to the Princess to prove her dedication. Allowing a demonstration of just how worthy she was of the exquisite creature’s true affections. She would not disappoint. Would not disappoint, even in the face of darkness, sweet and warm and terrifying, closing in. She would not.

The next moment she registered, she was coughing, hacking, fighting to breathe in, and out, and yet still supporting the colossal girth of the High Priestess’ cockshaft upon her reddened, saliva-smeared face. Its weight a clear, heavy reminder of what she had accomplished, the smooth, soft skin, the steely behemoth hidden beneath, its slow, but insistent pulsing telling her that, having proven herself, she still owed more to Tyrande.

“I am going to finish, this time, girl,” Tyrande said, from somewhere above. Deep, slightly hoarse breaths underlined the serious nature of her decree, the note of control seeming to slip even across those few words.

Kael’thas responded in the only manner she could. The clearest assent available. She pressed her lips to the monster, dragging them messily across that fat cumvein, inviting, with her abandon, precisely the same from the High Priestess. So she hoped, though the struggle for breath dulled emotion terribly efficiently. She had to trust the meandering impulses that directed her mind here, and there, had to trust the natural desires that led her to lavish attention upon Tyrande. What else was she to do – what else was right, when the monster was before her, and she wished to please the High Priestess? So, she squashed her lips close, and felt in them, within that vast cumvein, the passage of one, then another, and then a third of those steadily pearling, fat drops of seed. That they flowed free with enough force to jet a few inches from the head of that hefty beast, splattering onto her priceless, previously pristine dress with no hesitation whatsoever seemed, just then, irrelevant.

Once more, Tyrande maneuvered herself into position, shifting backwards to present that languidly pulsing, massive cock-crown to the Princess’ eager lips. For long moments, what would, for some other, lesser being, have been rhythmic, steady, orgasmic lashes of cum welled up against her skin, challenging her to swallow before the next followed, and then the next. She sealed her lips around the tip of that mammoth cockhead, parted, circled around it so that the High Priestess’ endless gift pumped directly into her mouth, requiring little effort to gather and swallow. For a while, that seemed to be enough. For a while, Kael’thas was allowed to indulge in that never-ending, sweet, slightly metallic meal, seeming to please Tyrande with her dedication to continuing to drink down every drop. Her dedication to rewarding every minor quake in that behemoth shaft, each one pounding another strand of seed into the royal maw.

Such a blissful, indulgent display nevertheless had to end, not, it seemed, because it displeased the High Priestess to watch Kael’thas’ delicate features work away in service, but, judging by the tightening of the fingers clamped around her head, around her throat, because something greater than mere passive satisfaction was sought. It was a natural thing, for the statuesque, towering High Priestess to apply just a modicum of pressure, pressing that broad crown into Kael’thas’ mouth. At a measured, steady pace – not because it was necessary, any longer, but because savoring the reconquest appeared the goal. Not to facefuck the Princess immediately, but rather to allow the royal lips to caress, to gently slip, over and around that thick, kaldorei monster.

Kael’thas’ tongue submitted easily. She wished it to, and yet, was presented no other choice, either. Her mouth agape, wider than she could ever hope to manage without the gracious assistance of the High Priestess, the only thing left for her to do was caress the top of Tyrande’s behemoth shaft as it slipped inexorably, ceaselessly in. Closed off her throat, again, plowing those girthy inches in without stopping to allow the girl to get used to what she was yet again made to take. There was no point. To take Tyrande was a singular experience for which preparation was impossible.

She squeezed her eyes shut all the tighter, trying only to allow the moment to take her, to wash over and through her. Not to waste her attention upon the cum-mixed spittle that bubbled from her lips in a most undignified manner, rather to focus on the pleasure her desperately clenching, constricting throat offered the High Priestess. Whose monster of a cock still rhythmically pulsed, those ropes of seed still steadily, mechanically pumping forth. Orgasm, by any normal measure. For the blessedly potent, seemingly bottomless kaldorei, no more than a taste of what was to come. And yet, its ceaseless stream already formed what felt like a full, sloshing meal within the Princess’ stomach. She acquiesced to the sensation, moving one hand down to rest upon her flat stomach, atop the cum-stained dress, the other remaining up.

Tyrande’s progress was not marked by hard thrusts, and so, when Kael’thas settled a hand on her swelling, cockbulging throat, she was allowed to feel the slow, inevitable movement of that weighty, immense shaft. The pressure relentless, never offering a moment’s pause, only ever plunging that beast further down into her, such that the fat, lazily pulsing base came closer, and closer. Handfuls of inches of cock crammed, crushed into her face, into her body, as moments wore on, and, near miraculously, the High Priestess did not even have to thrust when the final few had to be lodged within. Progress slowed, perhaps, but soon enough, those churning, eager, heavy balls came to rest against her face once more, her lips straining around the colossally thick base of Tyrande’s shaft. There, Kael’thas rested for a moment, moving only the hand upon her throat. Not to rest fingers against the High Priestess’ thigh, but rather against the defined musculature of her lower stomach, feeling the momentarily tamed power there. The needy, deep breaths. The saber-cat in waiting would not be contained forever. Not for long, at all.

How long they remained together in that kiss, she did not know. Senses betrayed her, so that, though her nose pressed up directly against those weighty, fat nuts, she scented near nothing. Tactile things, skin against skin, saliva flowing over her, over Tyrande’s balls, the feeling of that monster slowly, steadily pulsing within her clenching throat, remained to her. She saw nothing, and if she had opened her eyes, she would have been greeted with no more than a haze of purple, anyway, one she might have been unable to process. What penetrated her mind, connected her to the flow of time, still, were the things Tyrande did. She breathed, slowly, audibly. Every passing moment, seemingly, that behemoth tightened, and sent another of those thin, endless strands of seed to freely pump directly into Kael’thas’ stomach. Tiny, strenuous shifts of the strong fingers grasping her throat, her chin, her cheeks, her head. Holding her down. Nothing else, save the slow growth of the warm demand that she soon breathe.

At last, Tyrande withdrew. Two, three, then five colossal inches, coated with clinging saliva, drawing long, drooping ropes from the Princess’ lips and face to the priestess’ pelvis. To her nuts, and the reluctantly freed handful of dick. As if missing the clenching, strenuous home that monster had made within Kael’thas, it was jammed back into place. Back, again, until not as much as a fraction of it remained without. That conquest, that victory, however, was short-lived. A second later, the High Priestess pulled back again, a little more. Crammed in, then, and so, she established not an exploitative, swift pace, but rather something more measured, something that took the deepest of the Princess again, and again, and again, grinding in, and out.

Despite the clenching grasp of Kael’thas’ head, despite the flexed muscle, the strained breathing, she nevertheless sensed and understood that the High Priestess measured her efforts. Tyrande did not heedlessly ram into the Princess’ face, though she easily could have. Could have laid hammerblow thrusts against those elegant, regal features, threatening to break the royal nose, to bruise cheeks and lips. For a while, at least, that did not happen. Instead, near perfectly at the apex of each union, the High Priestess ceased moving just as pressure began to mount against Kael’thas’ lips. Just as she began to be pushed back against and into the cushioning. Just as every single, final inch of that behemoth had been crammed into her aching, overstretched lips, it eased, and then rolled backwards in another thrust. No doubt, the fraying, jerking edges of awareness were jolted and pushed closer to the foggy core of her mind, where thoughts fled to and bunched up, yet remained incomprehensible, but Tyrande could have been much crueler.

It dawned, at last, on Kael’thas. As raw, as hard as the High Priestess’ efforts were, she had to have been convinced, at long last, that the Princess was her equal. That she would not collapse and crumble under each successive, plowing thrust, but would wrap her lips around the base of that mammoth, fat cockshaft, greedily applying kisses when it bottomed out, accepting the endless, shooting strands of blessed seed that pumped, flowed into her stomach. At long last, service had convinced Tyrande, without words, that Kael’thas could be precisely the necessary liaison with the quel’dorei. The high elves would have no finer diplomat than the one hacking, coughing bursts of cum-mixed saliva around the hilt of the High Priestess’ obscenely thick dick. Accepting pistoning, frightfully steady thrusts.

Tyrande ground in, bottomed out, imprisoning Kael’thas’ head once more. Held that position, held on to each breath overlong, so that it hissed and burst from her lungs, the weight of muscle locking the Princess perfectly in place, heartbeat throbbing in her ears. Closed by Tyrande’s palms, holding her, not that there was any way, or desire, to squirm and wriggle free. Even so, she became aware that the High Priestess had said something. Waited, and then said it again, and only then seeming to realize that she had blocked the Princess’ ears, shifting her hold just so, speaking again. Needy words that escaped gritted teeth, heard but barely understood by Kael’thas, whose chest convulsed around the monster that had conquered her mouth, and throat. Whose mind reeled, and retreated into less and less space – into nothing. What had Tyrande said?

“Almost, girl.”

No respite, then. Kael’thas lifted shaking arms up so that she could press palms and trembling fingers flatly against the High Priestess’ chiseled stomach, abs flexing beneath her digits. Not to claw, not to fight, but to be able to feel the tactile end, when it inevitably came. If she still thought and felt and understood anything, when it did.

Endless moments later, counted only by that steady, pumping gift gracing her stomach in load after load, Tyrande withdrew. Not into grand, punishing, long thrusts, but into a hard, continuous rhythm. Gone was the control that preserved Kael’thas’ face from harm, the High Priestess’ muscled physique hammering, slamming into and against her nose at every thrust of but a few of those huge, fat inches, the mess between them growing into a forest of reeds, a jungle of strands of drool that only made the torrential sounds of smacking skin all the more obvious.

Clearly, Tyrande sought the end, a climax, and perhaps in some twisted sense of mercy, she held nothing back. Perhaps five, six, seven inches of that monster of a cock hammered into Kael’thas’ throat, brutal thrusts supplanting crushing force into her body, barely dissipating before that weight of muscle once again mashed against her face. Ground into her, ensuring that she was filled beyond full. Long heartbeats passed, load upon load upon load passed, uncountable seconds, each one punctuated by a merciless, plowing thrust, each one slipping a little further from Kael’thas’ grasp.

When, at last, the hard, swift pace broke down, when Tyrande pressed herself in to the hilt, held herself there for several long moments, seemed almost to stumble so that a few inches slipped back, only to be crammed into Kael’thas’ depths once more, the Princess found a last, flagging vestige of strength, feebly trying to arch her back, to press back up against the overwhelming, domineering force which kept her in check. She did not know if the High Priestess noted that final effort, but beneath her shivering, shaking fingers, she knew that the blessed, sating end had, at last, arrived.

A hiss of a breath, musculature locking down, clamping, Tyrande seeming to instinctively lean forward, press in, and down, holding herself there for torturous seconds. A moment’s relaxation, then, after which she flexed again, a hard, rasping, strained breath, and then another, core musculature working, building into the steady, hard contractions which produced the first, massive load, and prepared the many following.

That first, sweltering load’s beginning made the High Priestess flex, her core turning to stone, to steel, for but a moment. Already monstrously thick, the behemoth packed on yet more girth, the fat cumvein bulging outwards to make room not for those paltry strands, but a thundering, colossal pillar, a flood of seed hammering, pumping through that tree-trunk, huge dick, spilling, plowing into Kael’thas’ stomach with bruising strength, causing it to distend outwards just so, in an odd, momentary bulge that soon settled. Another rose in its place as the second, massive, molten load followed on from the first, charging, careening, pounding into the girl’s already filled stomach, such that the only real avenue left was expansion.

The third, colossal load joined the first two, and so, Kael’thas prim, flat stomach swiftly rose into perhaps an inch of a dome. So it did with the fourth, and the fifth, slowly, steadily packing on more sloshing, churning mass, the stained dress complaining, and yet receiving not a moment’s mercy. With bio-mechanical, cruel regularity, having reached a gasping peak of pleasure at last, Tyrande continued, each moment hammering another enormous, heated, fat strand of seed into the slowly expanding sea within the Princess.

With a slow, ripping complaint, pressure was eased at last, the fifteenth, then sixteenth load overcoming the Princess’ dress’ ability to contain the maddening, conquering, divine gift of the High Priestess. It split, first in a single spot, and then, rapidly, in but an instant, tore almost in twain. Leaving, finally, that bulging, swelling stomach spilling free from its confines, smooth skin lit from within by the silvery-blue glow of Tyrande’s potent, blessed essence, the low light of it roiling, swirling for each passing moment, each time it was yet again set into motion by another load pumped into Kael’thas’ depths.

Beneath her fingertips, she felt the steady quakes go on, and on, the High Priestess’ chiseled abs rhythmically hardening as her core pounded another, and then another load into Kael’thas’ straining, bulging belly, the distension, its tautness, something might have occupied her attention entirely in some other moment – some hypothetical alternate self would have gasped, and desperately sought to ease the fullness, but that self did not subsist on rapidly dwindling breath, did not weaken so much that even a mere cough was an effort that felt as if it took more energy than remained to her. The solitary thing that existed beyond herself, still, was Tyrande. Tyrande’s body, crammed, pushed up against her abused face, and the steady, hammering, orgasmic loads.

Though the High Priestess had not yet finished, she withdrew just an inch. Not with great haste, not in erratic need of ramming back in. She did not bottom out again, in Kael’thas’ face, but rather remained there another few moments, as if there was a special joy not just in crushing herself into the girl’s throat and face, but also in being able to watch that last, colossal inch pulse with each massive load.

Despite the impossibility of breathing, the pressure of all that silvery-blue, blessed seed nevertheless managed to find the improbably, tiny pathways up, and so, the next moment, Kael’thas weakly hacked a cough around the monster’s girth, saliva bubbled from her lips, but so did raw, fresh, heated cum. It worked itself steadily upwards and outwards, soon reflecting the pistoning, steady pumps with which it hammered into the girl’s stomach in the flood that welled up into her mouth, and past her lips. Forced itself up her nose, and then out, flowing from her nostrils. Coating her face along those same pathways already painted upon her by spittle. There seemed to be no end, still, Tyrande’s steady, powerful orgasm pounding another, and then another, and another load into the Princess, who at last relaxed. Not because she wished to, but because she had no more energy, had lost control.

Without full awareness, she nevertheless sensed that the embrace that she and the High Priestess had enjoyed, the closeness they had nurtured, was taken away. Before she could slip beneath the surface at last, to nothing, that behemoth cockshaft was hauled backwards in grand, hard movements, many inches pulled from the tight embrace of her lips, such that she soon found its still rhythmically throbbing head taken from her mouth, fat, pale blue, luminescent drops of seed pearling steadily from it. Why could she not breathe? She ought to--

In the next instant, it seemed as if her body caught up with the freedom granted it at last, and so, the Princess of Quel’thalas, of all the high elves, took in a shrieking, wretched gasp. One that should have went on, and on, but was interrupted by a cough. Again, she sought to breathe, but almost as soon as she had air in her lungs, her body expelled it. Over, and over, she coughed, tears spilling from her eyes, mixing with the unholy mess upon her bruised face, running down to meet the hands that still held her. No longer in a vice, but like a pillow, a gentle cushion for her head to rest on as she fought to breathe, to recover. To let thought take root and grow again, in her mind, which had been scorched, seared clean of anything save the red and black time, the endless, which had been marked only by the blessed movements of the High Priestess.

Without that steady, pounding marker of seconds passing, Kael’thas did not know how long she rested in those hands, soft, and yet clearly marked by the usage of tools – a bow, perhaps? A glaive? She did not know how Tyrande fought. It had never been relevant. It was not relevant now. She tried to speak, uncertain of what she even wanted to say, and produced only a cough that stole away not just the words, but the thought that had made her want to produce them.

Those hands remained, holding her. Safe, and steady. One left, for a while, to caress her exposed throat, reddened from the bulge it had displayed and contained until so very recently, and in that moment, though there was no threat in it whatsoever, Kael’thas remembered the thought of Tyrande as a huntress. A great lynx-like predator, a creature with which she had ingratiated herself, who would care for her, but would never be safe to the world. Someone who chose her companions carefully, those she liked, those that were of use to her, so that she might be of use in turn. A simpler, primal kind of relationship, one that Silvermoon masked so very well.

Together, they remained. For long minutes – tens, perhaps an hour, or two, Kael’thas could not say – until the High Priestess stirred again. That hemispherical, churning dome upon the Princess’ stomach had peaked, and had begun to sink again, slowly consumed. Its presence unmistakable, and yet, despite the obscenity of its volume, how full she felt at its presence, she somehow never felt the nausea that accompanied having eaten far too much. Perhaps the blessed, glowing seed itself somehow worked to prevent this, or perhaps Tyrande, herself, worked quiet magic to accomplish that task. Patiently sat upon her heels, fingers slowly circling, massaging Kael’thas’ scalp, and temples, and cheeks. Allowing time to pass. Minutes, and then, as they repositioned to lie together on the chaise, hours.