a she-Elf.

You are Jonkvrouwelin Britteny Saar Roos van Zygmunt (Eng: Lady Britney Sara Rose van Sigmund - you go by Britt), the most powerful portalist studying in the academy at the Dark Spire, or so, you tell yourself. One day, you aspire to be a navigator, and draw upon the power of the source to open fleeting gateways to distant lands and alternate dimensions - not just for yourself, but for entire 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. 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 considered to be a mere "young adult."

You are superior. Though you more or less pass for an incredibly attractive, magically-proficient human brunette, 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 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 well-arched.

You are reputed to be an incorrigible slut and a coquette who doesn't hesitate to use her feminine wiles to get what she wants. Your powerful magic, casual cruelty, and arrogant eyes strike fear and contempt in the hearts of your female peers. Your lithe, nubile body and flat, pregnable belly make your male spiremates ache to spend their seed within you.

In line with recent Druchire fashion, you wear your hair in a messy ponytail lined with wild braids, each representing a notable triumph. Your preference for clothing these days is simply a brassiere and tight loincloth, worn tight and preferably in jet black. 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 delicate soles, and plus, you have seen some men lust uncontrollably after your curled toes and shapely feet, and some others entranced by the idea of socks.

Most importantly, you are 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. You are the scion of one of a minor noble house of the Druchire exiles, but the product of centuries of carefully selected breeding to ensure not only the most attractive elven features were retained but that the human affinity for the power of the source is maximized. By the calculations and measurements of the Masters of the Dark Spire (one of whom you fucked 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)).

Your parents hoped that you would carry their banner to Black Keep: so that the Dark Lord himself might bed (and wed) 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. You wanted to live, not serve as another concubine to some "Dark Lord" of the Druchire to be mother to countless princelings. Being impregnated by your own kind resulted in a pregnancy that spanned nearly nine years in human time - it was the last thing on your mind. 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.

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 Bright 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 of men.

You bite your lower lip. So long as the seed injected within you was not from an Elf or an Orc, or of an overpowering nature (or amount), you were relatively safe from pregnancy. Relatively.

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 - who healed completely, every time - refused to reproduce.

Your halfblood stamina allowed you to survive sexual trials like the Moragh Marathon (it's a train of men fucking you), the Running of the Bitches (it's also a train), the Trolley of Cocks (it's a gangbang) and being "trapped" and "enslaved" as a harem girl in a distant human kingdom after you were "captured" on a dimensional field trip (several orgies). Oh, and the tentacle dimension (more on that later).

Your incredible resilience allowed you to emerge from all of these highly risky situations without contracting any diseases, while your potent immune response to the "invaders" in your pussy protected you from pregnancy each time.

Ahem, most of the time.

In fact, your survival in the camp of a centaur warherd, AKA, the time your teacher, the Master of Portals, Sepp Ventor, pawned you off as a pleasure to Ghoruk Manrider, "Raper of Dwarves" in exchange for the Staff of Nehkruti, was key to your success today. Ghoruk mounted you day and night for almost two weeks before Master Ventor remembered that he had left you in the warherd camp and came to rescue you and to return the Staff of Nehkruti.

Not that you actually wanted to be rescued. You could still remember his incredible, thick horsecock, and his inhuman vigor like it was yesterday.**

As a female student of the spire, to complement your natural immunity to reproductive invasions, you were instructed on the ways of vaask: tightening and closing your cervix on command, effectively sealing your unprotected, untainted womb from dangerous... contaminants. So long as you resisted orgasm, generally, the contractions of the womb would not overwhelm your abilities to prevent your cervix from opening. But with Ghoruk, orgasm, you did.

Splayed out over a wooden horse that the centaurs used to fuck captured humanoid women, you remember thinking that Ghoruk's cock would kill you as it penetrated deep into your sex, rearranging your internal organs. But, your body shockingly began to adapt to it. Ghoruk, slowly, but surely molded you around his member with every thrust. Gods, and the orgasms. At first, it was . You were horrified by the idea of being fucked by a centaur. But with every thrust, every orgasm, every hot sticky load of baby batter that Ghoruk injected into your womb, it turned into something else.

*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.

**Actually, this was truly an _awful _experience. You were young, you fell hard for Ghoruk (one of the few men who possessed spunk powerful (and worthy) enough to impregnate you), and Ghoruk got you pregnant. Then he stopped responding to your portalgrams*** despite his promise to keep in touch. But once in a while you will still portal him in in the middle of the night to fuck you after he hits you up, only to feel awful afterwards. Ghoruk is a toxic F boy.

***Young portalists of the spire sometimes write notes (often of a romantic or smutty nature), fold them into paper flying gliders, and then fly them through a portal to the object of their desire. You get bombarded by so many of portalgrams from admirers at the Dark Spire when you are sleeping that Master Ventor was to install anti-portal wards in your bedchambers that rivaled those in the Black Tower of the Dark Lord.