IT WOULD BE IRRESPONSIBLE not to mention outright that to Storm is not to Walk the Way of Wind. When we Storm we do not tread Paths of our making, but navigate through those haunted by Wind Wraiths—many unfit for elves. Storming is but a cheap imitation of the real deal; to give a crude but fitting illustration, it is the difference between self-pleasure and making love. Others have likened it to the furious love-making after a quarrel: rough, wrought with equal parts pain and pleasure, and short-lived. Yet Storming is so ingrained in Anemosian culture today that even experienced Walkers will burn vials for the thrill and quick release—because the alternative, calling upon Anemos the Unruly, Diviner of the Way of Wind, is to risk losing it all to a playmate who returns what she takes only rarely—for it is most often life.
FROM “A CHASER’S GUIDE TO STORMING” BY STORM CHASER ULF OF ANEMOS
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“Be gentler, Daughter of the Wind,” Wray urged as she picked out shards of glass from his nude back with a tweezer and then applied salve to the gashes; Sigrid was generous, so it stung far more than it should have. “Lest I die by your own hand and not make you my widow first.”
The Son of Ulf thought his lover sensual when angered: puckered lips, skin flush with a fury she calmed with her drawn breathing—not unlike when Wray and Sigrid found themselves lost in each other’s flesh—and the apathetic glare of those emerald eyes; a last stroke in the composition of Sigrid’s mural.
Wray would never anger his sweet Daughter of the Wind to revel in her, but he found Sigrid’s fury calmed his own when the twisters of their love raged hardest.
“Until when will you tease me for saying those words in my moment of weakness, Son of Ulf?” replied Sigrid. “I ask so that I am aware of how long I am to be celibate.”
Wray’s wolfish grin froze where he sat; he quickly glanced over his shoulder, down at Sigrid on her knees behind him, then winced when his lesions burned. But he smiled as he said, “What words, Love? You forget my memory is rather fickle after Storming, it must be the herb; yes, a vile allergy! Why else would I be so hopeless at Storming? I fear I have already forgotten what it is you may have said, Daughter of the Wind!”
Sigrid giggled till she snorted. “I am not yet done with you, silly, keep forward,” her soft, pale hands pushed against Wray’s broad shoulders and the young elvenman yielded. A silence lingered between the lovers for a long, soothing moment as Sigrid now tenderly ministered the salve and picked off the shards of glass plaguing her unrelenting windstorm’s flesh. “I trust you know I wish for us to marry. But I—”
Wray turned, took her hand and kissed it for a few breaths, then met her gaze as he said, “Love, in our own time—when we are both ready.”
Sigrid's eyes stung, and he saw the tears in them as she said, “And it’s not that you’re hopeless at Storming, Son of Ulf, you’re simply unschooled.”
“Oh? And who schooled you, Daughter of the Wind?”
Sigrid took a sharp breath and Wray cursed himself the moment those words left his lips; he hadn’t thought first, and he’d acted foolishly—again. Wray shuddered as Sigrid’s hand reeled toward his wrist instantly—clutching it, again with that might unbecoming of one so petite. Sigrid’s gaze scoured the cobwebbed roof as though realising only then how confined they were within those stone walls—how easily someone might trap the lovers within them—and that she had neglected to plot their escape.
“Love, I—”
Her heart sank at Wray’s pained voice. Sigrid saw the Son of Ulf’s gaze waver in meeting her own. When last did he look at her so unsure of himself? Had she frightened him again? Hurt him again? Sigrid let go her angst as she eased her grip on his wrist.
Mockingbird, you are free; you are safe, and you are loved, she thought.
“Sigrid, I did not mean to—”
The Daughter of the Wind embraced Wray, shuddering as she whispered, “I take the blame for this; it was not your fault at all. I am so sorry, my love. I am terribly sorry I hurt you again,” she said, taking his hand, now streaked red where her fingers held him. Sigrid bit her trembling lip when she saw, then brought his palm under her ashen cloak and over her nude breast. Wray felt the familiar warmth, and the perky, full softness of his lover; her small, hardened nipple probed circles at his palm as she roughly moved hers over his hand. Wray felt his blood rush, but clenched his jaw and stepped back.
“No. Not when you’re this way, Sig,” said Wray. “I thought this was behind us, clearly it is not. I would rather we talk it through than—”
She palmed his face, pulled Wray closer as she stood on the tips of her feet, then kissed him, long and furiously. “It is not what you think, my love,” said Sigrid, breathless. He could still feel her trembling. “I have wanted you all night; let us talk later—touch me.”
Wray pulled Sigrid closer, held the petite elvenwoman at the waist, then nibbled at her lower lip. As their eyes met that night, there was no mischief in hers, and the longing in his was tame. The lovers grew aware of a lingering malaise between them; the desire was there, but something was gnawing at them both.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Wray reached under her ashen cloak and appreciated her smooth, toned abdomen as he tenderly kissed her neck. The Son of Ulf took the mildly salty flesh scented with wildflowers in his mouth and caressed it with his tongue; Sigrid gasped, then shuddered as he did the same to her long, pointed ears.
Wray teased at her laced undergarments; the tips of his fingers brushing the stubble of her pubic mound. The lovers’ lips met again; feisty, unrelenting. Suddenly, the elvenman twisted Sigrid in his arms, breaking their kiss. Wray now had his lover facing the shattered window, looking out at the large moons over the blue lake; a breeze caressed her face as he embraced her back.
Sigrid felt the warmth of his unsteady breathing at her ears, as did Wray, the trembles of her heaving chest. The elvenwoman’s skin prickled as her lover’s fingers traced her abdomen and his hands reached for her breasts. Sigrid gasped as he firmly clenched both, then moaned when he pinched her nipples.
“Does the Walker’s memory haunt you still? His Way?” Wray whispered; winded, yet surprised at the fury in his own voice.
“Sometimes—certain words and phrases trigger it,” said Sigrid, breathless; he smelled her arousal, and she felt his, firm against her shapely bum. “And I said let us talk later—do you not want me? Does what you know of me sicken you?”
Wray clenched his jaw; glad Sigrid could not see the hurt on his face—but she heard it in his voice: “Daughter of the Wind, do you doubt my love?”
“Do not put words in my mouth—to love me and to want me is not the same thing; and if you want me, Son of Ulf, then please, touch me,” Sigrid replied; shuddering as her lover’s fingers pried deliciously at the warm folds of her stubbled, wet slit; she bit her lip, then breathed through her teeth and moaned—quiet but deep, “Yes.”
It was then that they both heard it: a tormented growl, something like a baby’s giggle—but harrowing—and a deranged snicker; all at once.
“Fuck,” Sigrid cursed in a whisper; annoyed he’d stopped caressing her. The elvenwoman swallowed, then asked, “Did you hear that, too, my love?”
Any other night, Wray would say no. But not that night—the Son of Ulf did not wish to make love to Sigrid as she was—for she sought pleasure, and not his companionship; something he hadn’t seen from her in a long time.
“Yes,” said Wray as he pried his hand, slick with her arousal, out from Sigrid’s laced undergarments and from under her ashen cloak. “Although, I was certain the castle was forlorn—am I so allergic to the herb that it is upsetting my intuition, Love?”
Sigrid rolled her eyes at his grin, then sighed; frustrated as she concealed her breasts and buttoned her knickers—their night of passion ruined.
“No, that cannot be right,” moody was her voice. “Earlier, I told a Council surveyor that a Merchant Thrall after my heart was looking to buy in my name the homestead across the Eye of Anemos—in black glass—when he heard how grand gestures of love moved us Voreiosians so,” Sigrid laughed dryly. “The surveyor mentioned she was looking to snatch her own Merchant Thrall one of these days—oh, the envy in her eyes—but expressed dismay at the Council’s inability to touch the land; as while the owner has been away from Anemos for the last 357 years, she still writes back and pays her hefty land tax.”
“Better a thrall with a trust fund than a prince of no land, eh?” Wray jested, but Sigrid did not bite. He cleared his throat. “Is it possible another pair of Chasers arrived here first for some mischief of their own?”
Sigrid did not answer for a long while. He stepped closer. Looking down at her now, Sigrid rummaged through her knapsack. She retrieved two pristine glass bottles and held their necks between her fingers—in each bottle raged a whirling twister.
“And they brought a child along to spectate the depravity?” replied Sigrid, tossing one bottle at Wray. “I am no physician, but I can say with certainty your allergy is not in remission, Son of Ulf.”
Wray’s fingers fumbled with the glass and the bottle fell out of his grasp; it sparked with the cobbled floor as it fell with a clank but did not shatter.
“And there’s the pudding,” said Sigrid. He reeled at the look she gave him.
“Hey! That was not my fault,” replied Wray, pointing at his still slick hand as though it was the most perfectly reasonable explanation.
Sigrid scoffed and gave him the most outrageous, disgusted look she could manage on such short notice. “And it was mine? Fuck you.”
“Daughter of the Wind, sharing is caring—that was likely both our fault,” said Wray, nodding. “But there is no reason to be crass, Love.”
Sigrid frowned and her lips parted, ready for the rebuttal, but she paused when those eerie sounds called again. Sigrid then turned and walked toward the door with not another word. Wray hauled the glass bottle and rushed after her. He took Sigrid’s hand, and she stood in place but remained facing the door, away from him.
“I am sorry that got so out of hand, Sig,” said Wray. “Are we alright?”
The elvenwoman said nothing. Wray glanced at the frosty glass bottle in his hand and said, “You finally brought out the family jewels.” He chuckled. “These are finely aged storms—stronger than anything we have ever brewed. And you have had them with you since we met; you never hid the bottles from me, but you never talked about them, either, so I never asked—and will not now. But if you are handing me one, it means you are worried about what is making those noises. We must be of the same mind to handle whatever is out there. So, I will ask you again, Sig, are we alright?”
“We are; and I forgive you, Son of Ulf,” said Sigrid, turning to meet his gaze. “It is those sounds unnerving me; I have heard their insidious cries before—but never in the city’s heart.”
“I thought as much,” said the elvenman. “What creatures are they?”
Sigrid and Wray tensed as they heard it again: a tormented growl, something like a baby’s giggle—but harrowing—and then a deranged snicker; all at once. It was getting closer.
“No, my love, no creature makes those sounds,” said Sigrid; she glanced at the door then tightened her grip on the glass bottle she held. “Those are the cries of men.”