#darkdevoured

The haze of perfumed smoke curled around Mizora as she lounged against the edge of the satin-draped dais, flicking ash into the candlelit, watching the swirl of bodies before her. All around, limbs entwined in a tangle of heat and breath — at least a dozen of them — warm skin slick with desire, the musky scent of arousal thick in the air, punctuated by whispered gasps and the soft rustle of shifting silk. Every joint and sinew writhed in pleasure, yet in her own body only impatience thrived.

She exhaled another plume of smoke, eyes half‑lidded, scanning the tableau as if it were an ill‑conceived play. The tremor of thighs, the damp press of torsos, the promise in each heated sigh were undeniably intoxicating… But not enough to hold her attention.

Yes, the doe‑eyed brunette from earlier managed to follow instructions well enough. But it wasn’t her. Not by a long shot. Everything felt so half-hearted: the over-eager poses, the weak moans, the rhythm was all wrong. It lacked that fierce devotion Mizora craved — the tremor in each kiss, the shuddering whimpers that spoke of genuine desperation under her touch, the roaming hands eager to have her closer, no matter what.

She’d been indulging in dark‑haired, petite women more frequently these days, chasing that fleeting spark… Yet every time she settled for one of them, her thoughts slipped back to Aurelia. As if no one else could truly sate her hunger.

How utterly tedious. Mizora thought with a snarl. And how... Disconcerting.

The cambion stood up in a sharp, sudden motion, cutting through the haze of sweat and smoke. "That's enough," she snapped, voice like a whipcrack as she gave a loud, sharp, commanding clap of her hands. "Gather your clothes, darlings. We're finished."

Around her, the entangled limbs and flushed faces of the orgy untangled in confusion. A few blinked up at her, dazed and unsure, while others sat up abruptly, eyes wide.

"What? Finished?" one man stammered, breathless and still half-hard. "But—"

"If there’s something specific you want, mistress," purred a lithe tiefling woman, crawling closer on all fours, "you only need to tell us. We can adjust. We can please you. Just say the word."

"Yes," another chimed in, her voice desperate. "Whatever it is we’ll follow it. You only have to command."

But Mizora’s ruby gaze was distant, distracted, already leagues away from the pile of willing bodies and perfumed arousal. Her wings flicked once in irritation. For the first time she regretted using her infernal charm for personal indulgences.

“Sweet things,” she drawled, already walking off to open the door. “You could reenact the Nine Layers with perfect choreography and it still wouldn’t do the trick.”

With a languid flick of her wrist, she stubbed out her cigarette, tail flicking with bored annoyance as she held the door open. “Honestly,” she murmured under her breath, “I simply expected more from you.”

The sharp motion of her head that followed conveyed a clear message: Out. Now.

She didn’t even wait for them to scramble for their clothes. Let them fumble and gawk, she had more important things to tend to.

She grabbed her silken robe from the chaise, wrapping it around her as she made her way to her boudoir, plucking a fine quill and a piece of fresh parchment from her lacquered desk. Ink shimmered as she dipped the tip, and then began to write in a sweeping, perfect handwriting:

Dearest Aurelia,

I’ve secured new lodgings within the city, something with a bit more charm, a bit more height, and a rather breathtaking view of the ocean. You’ll find the sound of the waves quite soothing when one needs clarity… Or company.

I would be delighted if you visited. The place feels awfully spacious without a sharp tongue and clever mind to fill the air.

With anticipation, M.

She sealed it with a kiss of fire and her personal sigil, eyes narrowing fondly at the parchment as she retrieved a slender strand of fine copper wire from her vanity, twisting it between her fingers and murmuring the incantation for the Sending spell. Her eyes glowed briefly with infernal light as she whispered the message into the weave of magic. The words shimmered into the ether, racing across planes to find Aurelia’s mind.

"Let’s see if this pulls you in, little orchid."

Shadowheart leaned against the wood trunk, swirling her wine with a smirk. "You know, it’s almost impressive," she drawled, eyes flicking to Hela’s tail at a distance, as it gave an unintentional twitch. "She’s already not of much help, but now she’s got a built-in tripwire. How long do you think before she strangles herself with it?"

Astarion, lounging beside her, hummed in faux consideration. "Oh, I’d give it a week. Two, if she miraculously avoids getting it caught in a door. Though, really, the odds of her tripping over it and plummeting off a cliff are much higher." He paused, casting a glance at Hela's direction, then added with a grin, "Honestly, I’m almost rooting for it. Imagine — betrayal by her own tail. The irony! Delicious."

Shadowheart snorted. "I’d almost feel bad."

Astarion lets out a laugh. "I wouldn’t."

The air crackled in a spark of arcane static, as reality itself hiccupped around Mizora. A ripple of raw, untamed magic seemed to surge from nowhere and everywhere at once, twisting the weave. The temperature shifted, light bent at odd angles, and for the briefest moment, everything smelled faintly of burnt sugar and ozone.

Then the magic snapped back into place, and where two insufferable adventurers once stood, there were now two very confused, very furry little rodents. Mizora let out a slow, delighted chuckle, watching tiny whiskers twitch in disbelief. Oh, this was too good.

Mizora clasped her hands together, feigning the most insincere gasp of shock as the two tiny, furious rats squeaked indignantly at her feet. "Oh, dear me," she drawled, crouching down with a wicked grin. "Did I do that? My, my, such a careless little slip of magic. Who knew your bodies were so eager to match your personalities?"

Astarion, now an irate little white rat, bared his tiny teeth. Shadowheart, dark-furred and fuming, twitched her whiskers in pure rage.

"Oh, come now, no need to be ratty about it." Mizora reached out and flicked Astarion’s tail, snickering as he scrambled away with an offended chitter. She sighed dramatically, standing tall. "I suppose I could fix it... Eventually. Until then, darlings, do try not to strangle yourselves with those adorable little tails… Or even plummet off a cliff. Tragic, truly. I'd be devastated." Mizora smirked, absolutely unconvincing in her feigned concern, before turning on her heel and sauntering toward Hela with the satisfaction of a job well done.

WORSHIP . This was Shadowheart's deepest and darkest desire she kept hidden away from prying eye, and known to herself only. Maybe she craved the attention, the power, the concept of ruling the upper hand over another. It was exciting on the taste buds like the flavour of her favorite Amnian dessert wine.. Whatever this was, it was instilled perhaps in herself by the Mother Superior .. or even maybe, by Shar- may she embrace the entire world.

Six months.

Six.

Gods-damned.

Months.

No letter. No whisper on the wind. Not even one of those tacky divine visions gods were so fond of sending when they wanted to gloat. Just— nothing. Like Mizora was some common fling left to rot in silence while Princess High-and-Mighty frolicked with fate or whatever self-important nonsense she'd cooked up this time.

And now here she was. Smiling. Strutting in like absence didn't scream louder than hellfire. Like she could bat those lashes, tilt her head just so, and charm her way out of abandoning her.

How dare she?

Did she think Mizora was some lovesick fool? Some simpering little cultist praying to the altar of Maeve's magnificent thighs?

…Okay, fine, she might've missed the thighs. A little. But that wasn't the point.

The point was that Mizora had half a mind to hex her where she stood and the other half already calculating how long it would take to forgive her if she kissed her just right.

Unacceptable.

But then—

Maeve was on her knees.

Looking up at her with those damnably bright eyes, like starlight caught in a bottle, glowing with everything Mizora tried so hard to pretend she didn’t crave. And those lips — lush and trembling, parted just enough to steal the breath from her lungs. The same lips that once traced devotion across her skin like a sacrament, as if Mizora were both altar and sin at the same time.

Whatever thread of indignation or rage Mizora felt shattered against that sight.

Maeve, kneeling not in surrender, but in offering. In knowing her. Wanting her. Still.

This won't work on her.

This... Shouldn't be working on her.

This—

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

Mizora's tail wagged twitched with too much want. She hated this. Hated how easy it was to unravel in that gaze. Hated how badly she wanted to fall into those arms again and pretend like six months of silence had never existed.

But her heart — that cursed, corrupted, conniving thing — ached with something that tasted a lot like longing.

And love. Hells, maybe even love.

Mizora bent forward slowly, in a flamboyant teasing act she knew so well. Her hand found Maeve's cheek, cupping it as if it were the most precious thing in all the realms. Thumb brushing over soft skin, she leaned in, her lips capturing Maeve's in a gentle kiss. Her tongue teased the lower lip first — slow, tracing the shape like she was learning it all over again — but the moment their mouths truly met, the fire sparkled.

She meant to say something wicked, something teasing — some flirtatious remark about missed chances or how good Maeve still tasted after all this time — but her mind failed her entirely.

Instead, she broke the kiss with a sudden breath, eyes wide and overwhelmed. And then she reached out, seized Maeve by the arm and pulled her up, into a crushing hug so tight it could've cracked a mortal's ribs.

She buried her face in Maeve's neck, inhaling that familiar scent — something clean, something warm, something home. Her wings unfolded instinctively, wrapping around the woman like a cloak, like a barrier to keep the world out as she squeezed every inch of her against her body, like she could mold their souls back together.

When Mizora spoke, her voice was but a trembling whisper, nothing like the coy devil she tried so hard to be.

"I missed you."

Jaheira's expression shifts the moment Hela speaks. Not with surprise, but with a quiet, simmering fury that has nothing to do with the woman before her. That same old fire she's carried since the Harpers, since the first time she watched a friend's soul twisted in the name of a god.

To watch over someone bound to the will of a god… It wasn't new to Jaheira. She had stood this very same guard before, over souls too tightly knotted to divinity, too steeped in prophecy to ever breathe freely. She remembered Lyra's haunted silence before the nightmares came. Imoen's desperate laughter, brittle as dry leaves, as she tried to pretend the visions weren't real. In the end, a god had claimed them long before death ever did.

And still, it never got easier.

Gods. They could be such arrogant, endless beings who acted as if devotion gave them ownership, who wore mortals like tools and crushed them when they broke.

Jaheira was no fool, and no heretic. She had walked the sacred groves, spoken prayers beneath ancient boughs, drawn her power from the wild divine. Mielikki. Silvanus. Names she had spoken with reverence.

But still, a dark thought nestled sharp in her heart.

What if, one day, even they decided to turn? What if the gods she trusted sought to bend her to some inscrutable will, just like Shar does with her faithful, or Bhaal does with his spawn? What would she do then?

The answer was a cold, fierce certainty in her chest: she'd burn down the whole damn pantheon before letting it twist her into something she didn't choose to be.

She moves closer, kneels beside Hela, and places a steady hand on her shoulder. "You don't even have to ask." She says, voice low, warm, but laced with a steely edge not aimed at Hela at all. "I've stood watch over many who were marked by power they never asked for. Over people tormented by things greater than they should've ever had to face." Her jaw tightens. "Shar might be powerful, but she is not infallible. And she is not entitled to you."

The Blackstaff Academy stood as a beacon of arcane mastery in Waterdeep, its reputation echoing through the annals of magical history. Legends like Elminster Aumar and Vajra Safahr had — and still — walked its halls, their names etched into the very fabric of the Weave. It was whispered that even Halaster Blackcloak, the Mad Mage himself, had once been nurtured within these walls, his mind unraveling under the weight of boundless power.

Mizora moved among the Academy's students, her infernal nature hidden beneath layers and layers of carefully crafted sigils that rendered her human disguise flawless, exuding an allure that turned heads and sparked curiosity. This tower was a crucible where raw magical talent was forged into legend. While ensnaring luminaries like Elminster or Vajra were beyond ambition, the corridors brimmed with potential. Each student was a flickering ember, waiting for the right breath to ignite into a blaze.

She observed them in the libraries, their eyes alight with the hunger for knowledge; in the laboratories, where the air crackled with nascent spells and the scent of singed reagents. Among them, she looked for the perfect candidate — someone whose ambition outstripped their caution, whose desire for power made them susceptible to the subtle art of persuasion.

The game had begun, and in this tower of prodigies and prodigals, she would take her very first step in the long, tortuous road to freedom. The threads of destiny were hers to weave, and soon, a new legend would rise — one bound to her will.

The classroom smelled faintly of old parchmentand fresh ink. Stone walls hummed faintly with wards etched long before any of the current occupants had been born, and the lofty arched windows gave way to a view of the glittering Sword Coast, the sea stretching endlessly into the horizon.

Mizora took her seat before the others began to trickle in, her form now bearing the Academy's uniform to complete the youthful, harmless façade. Her hair was tied into a thick braid that traced her scalp, elegant and tight. She sat at the far corner, near the window, of course. A perfect spot. Isolated, quiet, with just enough shadow and sunlight to make her look ethereal — if anyone happened to glance her way. But more importantly, she could see the sea from here, and the slow churn of the waves did much to stave off the mind-numbing drone she expected from today’s lecture on "interplanar resonances and harmonic disruptions in extraplanar casting." Hells take her.

The cambion rested her chin lightly on her hand, elbow propped on the desk, her blue eyes half-lidded but alert. Her gaze flicked over the arriving students, cataloguing mannerisms, hesitations, little bursts of power escaping from enchanted rings or bracelets hastily hidden.

So many minds. So many hearts. So many opportunities.

All she had to do was wait.

The door creaked open with a groan of ancient wood, and Mizora didn’t bother to glance up — at first. She had already imagined the professor: a wrinkled old man, tweed-robed, probably smelling faintly of pipe smoke and disappointment.

But then the air shifted.

Not magically, no. Something subtler. A change in presence. The cadence of the room seemed to still as the figure stepped across the threshold, boots echoing softly against the stone floor.

Mizora lifted her gaze, and blinked.

Not an old man.

The professor was a young woman, no older than her mortal guise, with raven-black hair cascading in long, effortless waves down her back. Her robes were immaculate and crisp, edged with starlight thread and stitched with runes. But it wasn’t her beauty that caught the devil’s eye. It was the way she moved.

Back straight. Chin high. Each motion filled with the certainty of someone who knew her worth and didn’t need to prove it.

She took her place at the front of the room like a sovereign returning to her court, not a guest in it. And when she finally spoke, her voice didn’t rise, didn’t bark — but it filled the space effortlessly.

The classroom rustled with furious scraps of quills in parchment as the professor continued her lecture. Mizora leaned an elbow against the window’s edge, one finger idly twisting her braid while she listened. The sea outside was calm, but inside the room, a storm was brewing.

It came from the opposite corner of the class, where a squat, red-faced man with more beard than chin leaned back in his chair with a snort.

"Beggin' your pardon, Professor," he said, his tone dripping with false civility. "But are we really expected to take instruction from someone who wasn't even born when most of us began our studies? I've boots older than you."

The room went still. Even Mizora’s smirk faltered for a moment — oh, this would be good.

The professor calmly capped her ink bottle, set down her quill, and looked the man dead in the eyes.

"And yet," she said, her voice cool silk. "Here I am, getting paid really well to teach people of which some are quite talented..."

The professor’s smile was sweet and surgical.

"And some who might want to consider befriending a devil and becoming a warlock instead. You're one of those. Clearly, your studies aren't going well if you're twice my age and still not actually a wizard."

The class chuckled — nervously at first, then openly. Mizora bit her lip, trying not to let her delight show too plainly.

The student’s face turned the colour of boiled beetroot. He opened his mouth, found nothing to day, and snapped it shut again.

Mizora nearly applauded. Instead, she sank lower in her seat, grinning like a cat that just caught a bird.

Oh yes, she thought, eyes gleaming. This one might just be worth the effort.

Not just another bookworm fumbling towards power, no. This one had command. Fire, sharp and hot, wrapped in elegance.

She had walked in expecting to find her next warlock among the desperate.

But now she wondered…

Would it be so terrible to court a wizard who didn’t need her?

Or better yet — to convince her she did?

"Excuse me, Professor?" Mizora lifted a delicate hand, her head tilted just so, voice as sweet and lilting as honeyed tea. "Now that you've mentioned devils," she began once the attention was on her, lashes batting with weaponized innocence, "I was just wondering… I thought the Blackstaff Tower had wards in place? Strict protections against fiendish presences, especially devils. Shouldn't it be… Impossible for one to get in?"

She delivered the question with a perfectly puzzled blink, as if the thought had just occurred to her. As if she weren’t the very embodiment of the subject she’d so innocently raised. Then, after a pause just brief enough to deliver the punchline, a smirk. "Sounds like our poor friend here might have a harder time than most becoming a warlock..."

Another ripple of amusement spread through the class.

But certainly no one was having more fun than Mizora.

“All I did was merely take a peak. Nothing more than a moment of morbid curiosity that needed to be sated.”

With any ounce of luck the woman would fail to question why he even plucked the book off of the shelf of the abandoned room they'd combed through. As the cover clearly betrayed the lustful nature of the pages inside.