#drow oc lore

Llewelyn is 5 years old. There is blood on the stone outside his house. A coppery smell fills the air. Thick crimson stains his hands and his shirt. His father is scrubbing his clothes, angrily glaring at him. The man who had tried to hurt him and his father is gone.

Llewelyn is 8 years old. His first time in the temple. His father did not want to pick him up to see the priestesses below. His mother made him. There was man on the altar. The priestesses chanted, the room began to fill with frenzied voices. Digging their blades into the man, they left him split open for Lolth. The man's screams echoed through Llewelyn's ears. His abdomen was shredded, his blood pooled on the altar, dripping onto the floor. His eyes empty and dull. That same copper smell fills the air. The chants and cheers muffle against Llewelyn's thoughts. This could be his fate. This could be his fate if he invoked the wrath of Lolth.

Llewelyn is 90. His blade is piercing the belly of Kalan, his first love. His breath on Llewelyn's face as he grips his shoulder. Almost close enough for a kiss. The sheer terror and shock within Kalan's eyes bore into Llewelyn. The Matron and her men blurred, he could only see Kalan's face. He could only focus on the light dimming in his eyes. His body falling limp. His blood on Llewelyn's hands. Llewelyn felt himself panting. The smell of it all and the sight of it all made him want to puke.

Kalan's eyes, the man on the altar, his father washing his clothes. Blood pooling at his feet, something grabs his ankle. Blood rushing to his waist, something grabs his shoulder. He tries to scream as he's pulled down. Things clawing at him. The smell of it all. The sight of it all. Kalan. The man. His father. Bodies. Blood. Gore. It follows him everywhere. Lolth's curse follows him everywhere.

Llewelyn jolts awake, covered in a damp sweat, breathing heavily. Even in his trance he cannot find respite from his past. It looms over him like a shadow. As he sat at the edge of his bed, he felt another body stir.

"Which one was it this time?" Llewelyn sat staring at the wooden floor, trying to compose himself. Unable to face the man talking to him. He hated being seen like this. Especially by his own husband.

"There were a few different ones," Llewelyn paused and peered over his shoulder, "go back to sleep."

Llewelyn felt a hand rubbing circles on his back, a chin on his shoulder.

"Let me stay awake with you. Please." He could hear the pleading in his husband's voice. He could feel his eyes burning into his skin.

"Astraeus…" Llewelyn sighed. He hated being loved. It was one of the hardest things he let himself do. Letting himself get dissected, hoping every piece of him would be swallowed and savored as it was. Even now after so many years of being together he still could not get used to how loved he was. Astraeus had seen the barest parts of himself and still chose him time after time. He was not used to being loved but he could not stop it, so again, he let himself be dissected.

He met his husband's eyes, golden and worrisome. Just as he thought. A tinge of guilt surged through Llewelyn as he looked upon Astraeus's freckled face. He was going to push him away, again, and why? So he could suffer in silence? Pretend everything was okay even when his husband knew things weren't? He could not spend a lifetime doing that to him.

Astraeus took Llewelyn's hand and led him down the stairs into their kitchen. Their footsteps creaking throughout the house. Starlight twinkled through the windows and danced upon the floor. It wasn't the first time Llewelyn woke up in the dead of night, and it wouldn't be the last.

Llewelyn sat at the kitchen table, watching as Astraeus put on the kettle for them. His golden hair messy, his eyes still lidded with the remnants of sleep. Even in his tired state he still radiated beauty. Astraeus turned to see Llewelyn staring and flashed him a quick smile before going back to making their tea.

Setting the tea down on the table, Astraeus sat next to Llewelyn and took his hand. There was a moment of silence that hung in the air. Llewelyn knew he would not be pressured to speak but the silence killed him. His body was numb, images flashed into his mind. He had to speak or he'd be consumed.

"I… I was 5. I saw my father cleaning the blood off my clothes. He had just killed a man who had tried to kill me for accidentally destroying his crops. Then I was 8. In her temple, my first time. I saw my first sacrifice. I can still hear that man scream. I don't even know who he was or what he did. Just that he was to be made a spectacle of. Then I was 90 and… and… gods there was…so much blood…" His voice trailed off.

His mouth had turned to dust and his chest had grown heavy. Astraeus said nothing in response, not that there was anything to say anyways. He pulled Llewelyn close, kissed his head, and gently rubbed his arm. Llewelyn breathed him in, the scent of cinnamon and honey. Silence washed over them again. There was a tenderness to it this time. Llewelyn pushed away the scenes flashing in his mind. He tried to focus on Astraeus. His gentle touch. His smell. His skin. He wanted to crawl within Astraeus's chest and nestle himself into his heart so he could feel his warmth and his love for eternity. So they could never be apart. Where he'd be safe from the nightmares forever and where Lolth's curse didn't dare follow. Instead Llewelyn buried himself into his husband's neck and muttered,

"I wish you chose someone else. That you loved someone else. Someone who isn't me. Someone normal who won't wake you up in the middle of the night with his nightmares." Llewelyn felt Astraeus's hand on his head, his fingers in his hair. He felt him sigh. Then Astraeus brought his hand to his chin, gently lifting his head so they were face to face. Sorrow was plastered across his face. A deep pain was set in his eyes, they looked duller than usual. Something that often occurred when Astraeus was saddened by something.

"Why do you speak so ill about someone I choose to love? I wake up in the night for you and sit with you not because I have to but because I want to. I love many things and none you talk down on. But the thing that I love the most, you loathe. I love you, every part of you, and I wish you could accept that," Astraeus paused for a moment, stroking Llewelyn's cheek, "I wish you could see yourself the way I see you." Tears welled in Llewelyn's eyes, his words were so soft and gentle and he could not stand it. They struck him like a knife, he was being carved up again, he could feel every inch of himself being laid bare for Astraeus. He did not deserve such tenderness but he could not continue to hurt his love like this. Burying himself into Astraeus's neck, tears streamed down his face.

"I'm sorry… I'm so sorry." Llewelyn's voice was hoarse as he cried into Astraeus.

Astraeus's arms tightened around him, he continued to rub Llewelyn's back. Whispering reassurances into his ear, kissing his head and ears. Llewelyn could feel him trying to hold back his own tears. For many years they laid their lives on the line for each other, ready to sacrifice everything for the other. It was easy, Llewelyn does it without a second thought, rushing into danger just to give his lover a chance at life. Yet something as simple as this was agonizing for him. The act of being loved. Being cared for. Sometimes he fought tooth and nail to resist it and it was hurting the very man he trusted his life with, whom he loved more deeply than anything else.

They sat like that for few moments, Llewelyn listening to Astraeus breathe. Listening to his heart thrum in his chest. Trying to settle into the comfort of his lover's touch. He was here with him. Alive. Lolth's curse had not gotten them yet. Not completely anyway. But it was tearing at them and Llewelyn couldn't let that happen.

Llewelyn picked his head up, through glossy eyes he looked at Astraeus and whispered,

Llewelyn is 5 years old. There is blood on the stone outside his house. A coppery smell fills his nose. The thick crimson stains his hands and his shirt. His father is scrubbing his clothes. Angrily glaring at him. The man who had tried to hurt him and his father is gone.

Llewelyn is 8 years old. His first time in the temple. His father did not want to pick him up to see the priestesses below. His mother made him. There was man on the altar. The priestesses chanted, the room began to fill with frenzied voices. Digging their blades into the man, they left him split open for Lolth. The man's screams echoed through Llewelyn's ears. His abdomen was shredded, his blood pooled on the altar, dripping onto the floor. His eyes empty and dull. That same copper smell fills the air. The chants and cheers muffle against Llewelyn's thoughts. This could be his fate. This could be his fate if he invoked the wrath of Lolth.

Llewelyn is 90. His blade is piercing the belly of Kalan, his first love. His breath on Llewelyn's face as he grips his shoulder. Almost close enough for a kiss. The sheer terror and shock within Kalan's eyes bore into Llewelyn. The Matron and her men blurred, he could only see Kalan's face. He could only focus on the light dimming in his eyes. His body falling limp. His blood on Llewelyn's hands. Llewelyn felt himself panting. The smell of it all and the sight of it all made him want to puke.

Kalan's eyes, the man on the altar, his father washing his clothes. Blood pooling at his feet, something grabs his ankle. Blood rushing to his waist, something grabs his shoulder. He tries to scream as he's pulled down. Things clawing at him. The smell of it all. The sight of it all. Kalan. The man. His father. Bodies. Blood. Gore. It follows him everywhere. Lolth's curse follows him everywhere.

Llewelyn jolts awake, covered in a damp sweat, breathing heavily. Even in his trance he cannot find respite from his past. It looms over him like a shadow. As he sat at the edge of his bed, he felt another body stir.

"Which one was it this time?" Llewelyn sat staring at the wooden floor, trying to compose himself. Unable to face the man talking to him. He hated being seen like this. Especially by his own husband.

"There were a few different ones," Llewelyn paused and peered over his shoulder, "go back to sleep."

Llewelyn felt a hand rubbing circles on his back, a chin on his shoulder.

"Let me stay awake with you. Please." He could hear the pleading in his husband's voice. He could feel his eyes burning into his skin.

"Astraeus…" Llewelyn sighed. He hated being loved. It was one of the hardest things he let himself do. Letting himself get dissected, hoping every piece of him would be swallowed and savored as it was. Even now after so many years of being together he still could not get used to how loved he was. Astraeus had seen the barest parts of himself and still chose him time after time. He was not used to being loved but he could not stop it, so again, he let himself be dissected.

He met his husband's eyes, golden and worrisome. Just as he thought. A tinge of guilt surged through Llewelyn as he looked upon Astraeus's freckled face. He was going to push him away, again, and why? So he could suffer in silence? Pretend everything was okay even when his husband knew things weren't? He could not spend a lifetime doing that to him.

Astraeus took Llewelyn's hand and led him down the stairs into their kitchen. Their footsteps creaking throughout the house. Starlight twinkled through the windows and danced upon the floor. It wasn't the first time Llewelyn woke up in the dead of night, and it wouldn't be the last.

Llewelyn sat at the kitchen table, watching as Astraeus put on the kettle for them. His golden hair messy, his eyes still lidded with the remnants of sleep. Even in his tired state he still radiated beauty. Astraeus turned to see Llewelyn staring and flashed him a quick smile before going back to making their tea.

Setting the tea down on the table, Astraeus sat next to Llewelyn and took his hand. There was a moment of silence that hung in the air. Llewelyn knew he would not be pressured to speak but the silence killed him. His body was numb, images flashed into his mind. He had to speak or he'd be consumed.

"I… I was 5. I saw my father cleaning the blood off my clothes. He had just killed a man who had tried to kill me for accidentally destroying his crops. Then I was 8. In her temple, my first time. I saw my first sacrifice. I can still hear that man scream. I don't even know who he was or what he did. Just that he was to be made a spectacle of. Then I was 90 and… and… gods there was…so much blood…" His voice trailed off.

His mouth had turned to dust and his chest had grown heavy. Astraeus said nothing in response, not that there was anything to say anyways. He pulled Llewelyn close, kissed his head, and gently rubbed his arm. Llewelyn breathed him in, the scent of cinnamon and honey. Silence washed over them again. There was a tenderness to it this time. Llewelyn pushed away the scenes flashing in his mind. He tried to focus on Astraeus. His gentle touch. His smell. His skin. He wanted to crawl within Astraeus's chest and nestle himself into his heart so he could feel his warmth and his love for eternity. So they could never be apart. Where he'd be safe from the nightmares forever and where Lolth's curse didn't dare follow. Instead Llewelyn buried himself into his husband's neck and muttered,

"I wish you chose someone else. That you loved someone else. Someone who isn't me. Someone normal who won't wake you up in the middle of the night with his nightmares." Llewelyn felt Astraeus's hand on his head, his fingers in his hair. He felt him sigh. Then Astraeus brought his hand to his chin, gently lifting his head so they were face to face. Sorrow was plastered across his face. A deep pain was set in his eyes, they looked duller than usual. Something that often occurred when Astraeus was saddened by something.

"Why do you speak so ill about someone I choose to love? I wake up in the night for you and sit with you not because I have to but because I want to. I love many things and none you talk down on. But the thing that I love the most, you loathe. I love you, every part of you, and I wish you could accept that," Astraeus paused for a moment, stroking Llewelyn's cheek, "I wish you could see yourself the way I see you."

Tears welled in Llewelyn's eyes, his words were so soft and gentle and he could not stand it. They struck him like a knife, he was being carved up again, he could feel every inch of himself being laid bare for Astraeus. He did not deserve such tenderness but he could not continue to hurt his love like this. Burying himself into Astraeus's neck, tears streamed down his face.

"I'm sorry… I'm so sorry." Llewelyn's voice was hoarse as he cried into Astraeus.

Astraeus's arms tightened around him, he continued to rub Llewelyn's back. Whispering reassurances into his ear, kissing his head and ears. Llewelyn could feel him trying to hold back his own tears. For many years they laid their lives on the line for each other, ready to sacrifice everything for the other. It was easy, Llewelyn does it without a second thought, rushing into danger just to give his lover a chance at life. Yet something as simple as this was agonizing for him. The act of being loved. Being cared for. Sometimes he fought tooth and nail to resist it and it was hurting the very man he trusted his life with, whom he loved more deeply than anything else.

They sat like that for few moments, Llewelyn listening to Astraeus breathe. Listening to his heart thrum in his chest. Trying to settle into the comfort of his lover's touch. He was here with him. Alive. Lolth's curse had not gotten them yet. Not completely anyway. But it was tearing at them and Llewelyn couldn't let that happen.

Llewelyn picked his head up, through glossy eyes he looked at Astraeus and whispered,

Llewelyn felt himself clawing at the stone walls of his cell, eager to escape this wretched hell. How many days had he been here? How many weeks? How many more times would the guards come by to torment him? How much longer would he have to endure this?

He was lucky. This evening, they gave him food. He had scoffed it down without a second thought, yet his gnawing hunger remained unsatisfied. Still scratching and scraping at the walls, his fingers protested. Their calloused surfaces split open, oozing fresh blood. Broken bits of fingernails lay scattered across the room. He had to keep his hands busy, no matter how much it hurt. Gods know what would happen if he stopped. This nightmare might finally seep into the recesses of his mind, shredding whatever sanity he had left. Always keep busy, or this place will swallow you whole. Suddenly, he ceased his incessant grating, feeling his stomach churn. Sweat began beading on his forehead, the dark room spinning around him. He cursed himself for so willingly eating the slop they had served him.

The cold stone floor was a welcome comfort to his now-burning skin. Groaning as he tucked his knees to his chest, he wished whatever new suffering he had wrought upon himself would end. The churning and sweating worsened as the seconds passed, then he felt something bubbling inside him. Something was moving within him. Breathing erratically as saliva pooled in his mouth, followed by the taste of copper. He clutched his stomach, praying to whatever gods could hear him to end his suffering. Time stopped for a second, a pause of silence in the air, a moment of calm washed over his body. As if the gods heard his prayers or as if the worst was yet to come. Then, the stillness was ripped from him. Agony spread throughout his body as his stomach began to convulse. His abdomen felt like it was tearing with every contraction. A thick black tar-like substance spilled from his mouth, along with a tiny spider. His eyes widened in horror.

Before he could even process what was happening, the retching came again, this time more forcefully. Droves of spiders crawled their way out of his throat and nose. More tar and blood spewed out of him, leaking from his mouth and nostrils, splattering all over himself, and attracting the attention of the vicious arachnids. The rest of the fluids that couldn’t escape filled his lungs, causing his chest to spasm. Limbs frozen as the insects skittered across him, biting his tender flesh, lapping up his blood. With each stab of their fangs came a deep, stinging sensation that spread throughout him. Venom coursed through his veins, causing him to lock up even more.

Throat tightening, lungs seizing, vocal cords too shredded to even scream, Llewelyn could only watch in horror as they feasted on him, as they continued to pour out of him. Breathing seemed like a distant memory. Tears welled in his eyes. The pain and terror consumed his mind, body, and soul.

Lying there, shaking, in a pool of rot, the worst of the torment dwindled. The final spiders crawled up Llewelyn’s face. His mouth was slightly agape, and his breathing shallow. Excess fluids dripped slowly from his lips. The raw wounds in his flesh had already begun to scab over. His heartbeat thrummed in his ears, the only reminder that he was alive. Not that it mattered to him anyway. Or the spiders. There wasn’t even enough energy within him to wish for death. All he could do was lie there staring at the corners of the tomb-like cell where thousands of webs had begun to form. Their white strands infused with a sickly crimson that seemed to drip down towards the floor. Almost like a cluster of eyes that stared down at the pitiful husk of a man Llewelyn had become.

Moments later, the heavy stone door slid open. Yas’tana and Thia’zyl stood in the corridor. Even in his condition, Llewelyn tried his best to avert his gaze—the fear of punishment for looking upon a drow woman deeply ingrained in him. Closing his eyes proved difficult due to the venom.

Thia’zyl hung back, barely looking into the room as Yas’tana moved to stand before him, her usual malicious grin plastered across her face.

“A shame I missed the spectacle. I wish I could’ve seen you squirm.” Yas’tana sneered. Llewelyn could feel her taking in every gory detail of the scene, soaking up all the anguish he had suffered and deriving every ounce of pleasure she could from it. She hungered for his pain. It was the very reason why she brought him to this manor 15 years ago. Nothing else would sate her appetite. She’ll feed off his suffering until he lies dead on the spider altar. Tearing open the carcass of his soul and devouring the scraps like the beast she—and all of Lolth’s priestesses were—before moving on to the next hopeless sod she finds interesting. Yes, there is not a shadow of a doubt she’ll etch his gory visage into her mind, just as she did with the ones who came before. Such is her nature. Such is her way.

The sound of Thia’zyl’s voice interrupted Yas’tana’s banquet of torment and bloodshed,

“Enough gawking. Give him the antidote, and be done with it.” The other priestess hummed in response, keeping her attention on Llewelyn,

“Such a sight should be savored, not devoured. I think I’ll indulge myself a little longer.” Thia’zyl turned to her sister, her lips tightening slightly. Llewelyn could see her blank expression falter. She composed herself and remarked cooly,

“You will have your fill of carnage and viscera once he is on the altar for the Goddess. He is needed alive. Unless you would like to incur the wrath of Matron Tal’zaiira and Lolth, I suggest you listen.” Yas’tana frowned at the apparent threat. Llewelyn could only imagine what would happen to her if he died before they could sacrifice him. The other priestesses would make short work of her. Her end would be swift yet painful, and, for a second, Llewelyn toyed with the idea of deeply inconveniencing her.

Yas’tana carelessly poured the antidote into Llewelyn’s mouth. Her bright red eyes pierced his face, radiating pure, unadulterated malice. He ignored her stare and swallowed feverously as the cool liquid hit his throat. If he could move, he was sure he would’ve snatched the bottle out of her hand.

Yas’tana moved towards Thia’zyl after emptying the bottle. She stopped, inches away from her face, voice tinged with animosity,

“You speak out of turn. Remember who is firstborn here, Thia’zylisstra’drada.”