a she-Elf.

You are Jonkvrouwelin Astrid van Sigmund, the most powerful portalist studying in the academy at the Dark Spire, or so, you tell yourself.

You are the product of your House Sigmund's multi-generational breeding program to produce the genetically perfect Druchire. Unlike many other Druchire great houses, who only sought to breed progeny who were magically attuned to the Source - the great tear in the fabric of the world - a jagged, beautiful, multicolored scar across the sky, ever-present and ever-expanding, but visible only at night, the heads of your house pursued a more well-rounded approach. At least, that's the official story - in reality, House Sigmund is a more minor great house, and lacks the funds to pursue a purely Source-based breeding program. As a result, while you are one of the most attractive Druchire women alive, with the best human and elven features retained, you are not quite as powerful as some of your... uglier peers. But often, beauty commands as much respect as power. And by the totally unbiased calculations and measurements of the Headmasters of the Dark Spire (three of whom you allowed to foul your pussy with their sperm before the release of the test results), you are allegedly able to channel as much power as all but the most powerful of human sorcerers (on a really good day (and when you're not on your period)).

True, your allegedly powerful magic struck fear and contempt in the hearts of your peers, but it was your noble, determined dark blue eyes, elegant, dark brows, confident-but-cruel smirk, high cheekbones, lithe, nubile body and flat, pregnable belly made you truly powerful and aroused jealous from all. Though you more or less pass for an incredibly attractive, magically-proficient human brunette except for your slightly sharp ears, you have the regenerative healing factor, stamina, resilience, immunity to diseases and poisons, and longevity of your elven ancestors - though all to a lesser extent.

Amongst your people (the half-human-half-elf Druchire), that means that you are the epitome of what it means to be a young Dark Elf woman: the best of both the human and elven worlds. You are strong, but not muscular. You are tall, but not too tall. Your waist is impossibly small for how high and wide your hip bones are - they protrude to your sides like little mountainous peaks that slope into your thin, tight but supple thighs. Your breasts are on the small side, but you are a war sorceress of the Dark Spire, not a whore. Your feet are that of a noblewoman's: strong, but delicate, soft, and so well-arched that they appear to be smaller than they actually are.

You wear your hair in a messy ponytail lined with wild braids. In line with recent Druchire young women's fashion (rapecore), Your preference for clothing these days is simply a jet black brassiere or bodysuit and tight panties, fashionably torn to just barely hide (or reveal) your most sensitive areas, as if you had just been ravished by a gang of men unable to control themselves when they saw you. Since you mastered the art of magic armor, you have not needed real armor. You gained an advantage from showing as much of yourself to the enemy now. For the same reason, you prefer to go barefoot or wear stirrup socks - willing a paper-thin cushion of **** between your feet and the ground is enough to protect your soft soles, and plus, you enjoy curling and flexing your delicate toes in public while making eyes at men, and watching the bulges in their pants grow uncomfortably. You've seen some men lust uncontrollably after your shapely feet, and have developed a "nervous tick" of flexing and curling your toes while sitting and a "bad habit" of standing with one foot flat and resting the other on your curled toes.

Your parents hoped that you would carry their the family bloodline to the Dark Tower: so that the Dark Lord himself might breed you, elevating your kin to the heights of true power. You were born into greatness and destined for greatness - or at least, your womb was destined to be filled with greatness.

Not that you really cared. Ostensibly, you aspire to be a Navigator one day, and draw upon the power of the Source to open fleeting gateways to distant lands and alternate dimensions - not just for yourself, but for the Black City's warhosts. It's one field of magic where the Druchire exceed their human cousins in, for no reason other than the fact that humans are relatively short-lived. Generally, a portalist may only open a portal to where she has been, where she can remember with distinct accuracy. In your time at the Dark Spire, you guess that you must have already seen three human lifetimes' worth of foreign locales, continents, and dimensions, and you are still considered to be a mere "young lady."

In reality, around one hundred years ago, you discovered the other "powers" afforded to you by your genetic heritage. Indeed, the engineered concentration of human breeding in your bloodline brought great boons in the form of magical aptitude, but it also brought with it the fever that afflicted human loins - the physical lust that your Elf cousins lack. Despite your mind informing you of all the negatives motherhood would bring, your loins yearned for pregnancy. Your womb ached to be filled with potent, dangerous seed.

You bite your lower lip. Sex - copious amounts of it - was an integral part of Druchire culture. Coupled with some slight physiological differences, sex was simply euphoric for Dark Elf women in ways human and Besire women could never comprehend. As Druchire, your moderately increased ability to heal meant that your hymen never truly disappeared but wore down over time into a delicious, nerve-filled ridge that became a source of immense pleasure. Penetrative sex was painful for the first decade you became sexually active, but now, after nearly a thousand partners, it was incredible. Until you experienced it for the first time, you did not understand why Besire women - whose hymens healed completely, every time - refused to reproduce.

It was not uncommon for Druchire - especially Druchire women - to be afflicted with some unease of the mind, perhaps, as a result of the rampant, licentious approach to dating and sex (Druchire biology effectively means no STIs or yeast infections, which also translates to dozens of partners per day), cavalier attitudes towards **** (the first time you were ****, your mother scolded you for not seducing or fighting off your **** instead, and since then you've been **** countless times), and exposure to raw Source energies. But you - perhaps, because of your family's eugenics program's focus on physical perfection - developed a particularly nasty case of what would be considered nymphomania in humans. In Druchire culture, you were just very very slutty. More concerningly, when you were around 220 years old and just ending puberty, you became afflicted with a particularly perverse fetish for interracial sex.

Over the last century, you established a reputation as an a nice young dark-elf lady who was "secretly" an incorrigible slut and a coquette who doesn't hesitate to use her feminine wiles to get what she wants (a very good thing in Druchire culture). With emphasis on the air quoted "secretly," as Druchire social norms value nothing more than open secrets. Yet, in true secret, you often fantasized about being used as a plaything for the foul creatures of the void, getting skewered by centaur horsecocks, being gangbanged by goblins and their tiny members, or, more recently with the rumors of a renewed Orcish horde building in the east, testing whether your perfect genetics (and immune system) could resist impregnation against the infamously potent, copious, and gelatinous Orcish seed.

You wanted to live, not serve as breeding stock. You were far more interested in adventure, travel, the sights of distant lands you glimpsed through the portholes*, fucking all sorts of exotic males, and then writing travelogues about all of the above. You were young. You wanted to be used, abused, and perhaps, bred... by other, more interesting men of an... interracial nature.

Your incredible resilience, as a result of your elven lineage, allowed you to emerge from all of these highly risky sexcapades without contracting any diseases, while your potent immune response to the "invaders" in your pussy protected you from pregnancy each time. As a result, you were relatively safe from pregnancy. Relatively. Your robust immune system could still be overwhelmed by sheer volume. As such, as a female student of the spire, to complement your natural immunity to inevitable reproductive "invasions," you were instructed on the ways of vaask: tightening and closing your cervix as much as possible on command, effectively reducing the amount of sperm entering your unprotected, untainted womb - at least, this is how it was supposed to work. On paper, as long as you were able to concentrate, generally, your mastery over vaask wouldn't be overwhelmed by the pleasure of the orgasms you received. In practice, vaask was exhausting, and felt like you were clenching every muscle in your stomach to prevent the orgasm from fully spreading into your womb, and after having fifteen orgasms once, you could feel your muscles burn before you finally gave into the pleasure.

Unfortunately, what you had given in to were the denizens of the tentacle dimension...

*A window into a different dimension, formed when one opens an incomplete portal. Often intentionally done by young dark elf portalists dreaming of another world and old lecherous portalists spying on those young, nubile portalists.