Sins of the Succubus

3. Dremlor

3

DREMLOR

I move through the bustling streets of Protheka, my senses attuned to the ebb and flow of mortal emotions. Boredom gnaws at me, a constant companion in this realm of predictable suffering.

The cacophony of mundane lives grates on my nerves, each petty concern and fleeting joy a reminder of how far I've fallen from the glorious chaos of the Abyss. Suddenly, a wave of despair crashes over me, so potent it nearly stops me in my tracks. The intensity of it is... intoxicating.

"What in the Abyss?" I mutter, my eyes narrowing as I scan the area. The taste of such raw anguish is a delicacy I haven't savored in eons.

The source isn't immediately apparent, hidden among the sea of insignificant mortals. I push through the crowd, ignoring the startled yelps of those who brush against my imposing form. Weaklings, the lot of them. They shrink away, their instincts warning them of the predator in their midst.

The despair grows stronger with each step, pulling me like a siren's call. It's magnetic, irresistible. I have to find its origin, to bask in its exquisite misery. Whatever—or whoever—is emanating such delicious suffering might just be the cure for my endless boredom.

"Watch where you're going, you oaf!" an elven woman snaps as I bump into her.

I barely spare her a glance. "Silence, worm," I growl, my voice carrying an otherworldly timbre that makes her shrink back in fear.

As I round a corner, I spot a seedy bar tucked away in a dingy alley. The waves of despair emanate from within, stronger than anything I've felt in centuries. Intrigued, I pause to observe.

Two dark elves stumble out, their raucous laughter grating on my nerves.

"Did you see the look on that human bitch's face?" one slurs. "Priceless!"

His companion guffaws. "Yeah, she thought her husband would actually defend her. As if!"

Their words pique my interest further. I approach the bar's entrance, adjusting my dark elf disguise with a simple thought. The stench of cheap ale and unwashed bodies assaults my nostrils as I push open the door.

Inside, the cacophony of drunken voices and clinking glasses fills the air. But beneath it all, I sense it—that exquisite despair, more potent than the finest whiskey.

"Hey, newcomer!" a gruff voice calls out. "You looking for some fun?"

I turn to see a burly dark elf leering at me, his eyes glazed with intoxication.

I brush off the drunken elf with a dismissive wave, my eyes scanning the dimly lit room. That's when I see her. A human woman, moving between tables with a tray of drinks, her movements graceful despite the chaos around her. The despair radiates from her like heat from a forge, and I'm instantly captivated.

I lean against the bar, my eyes fixed on the human woman as she navigates the chaotic room. Her hair, a cascade of midnight silk, falls in gentle waves down her back, catching the dim light with each graceful movement. It's a stark contrast to her porcelain skin, which seems to glow despite the grimy surroundings.

Her eyes, though... they're something else entirely. Feline-like and captivating, they hold a depth I've rarely seen in mortals. But it's the pain lurking in their depths that truly draws me in. Such exquisite suffering, barely contained behind those mesmerizing orbs.

As she turns to serve another table, I take in her figure. She's slender, almost too much so, as if she's been deliberately kept on the edge of hunger. Her curves, while subtle, are undeniably feminine. Her breasts, not overly large but perfectly proportioned to her frame, strain against the flimsy fabric of her uniform.

Ah, that uniform. It's a mockery of decency, barely covering what it should while leaving little to the imagination. The fabric clings to her like a second skin, accentuating every curve and hollow. It's designed to entice, to make her an object of desire for these pathetic creatures surrounding her.

But there's something else about her, something that goes beyond mere physical beauty. Invisible to these drunken fools but clear as day to my demonic senses.

"Who's that?" I ask, grabbing the arm of a passing patron.

The elf sneers. "That's Neela. The owner's wife. Quite the piece of ass, ain't she?"

I release him, my gaze never leaving the woman. There's something... different about her. Something that sets her apart from the other pathetic mortals in this cesspool.

I settle into a corner booth, observing Neela throughout the night. Her beauty is undeniable, even by elven standards. But it's more than that. There's a depth to her, a complexity that I can't quite place.

As she passes my table, I catch a whiff of her scent. It's intoxicating, laced with something... familiar. Something that shouldn't be there.

"Ale," I growl as she approaches.

Neela nods, her eyes never quite meeting mine. "Right away, sir."

When she returns with my drink, I reach out to take it from her. Our fingers brush together. She flinches, and I can feel the fear coursing through her. But beneath that... there's power. Raw, untapped potential.

I lean back in my chair, the cheap wood creaking under my weight. The ale sits untouched before me, a prop in this mortal charade. My eyes follow Neela as she weaves through the crowd, her movements a dance of grace and resignation.

"Fascinating," I mutter, drumming my fingers on the sticky table.

A drunken elf stumbles past, nearly spilling his drink on me. I shoot him a glare that sends him scurrying away, whimpering like a beaten cur.

Neela glides by again, her tray laden with drinks. Her gaze skims over me, unseeing. To her, I'm just another face in the crowd. But there's something about her, something that tugs at the edges of my consciousness.

I catch snippets of conversation as patrons call out to her.

"Hey, sweetheart, how about a little private show?"

"Neela, darling, come sit on daddy's lap!"

She deflects their advances with practiced ease, her smile never reaching her eyes. But beneath the facade, I sense a storm brewing. The despair rolls off her in waves, intoxicating and familiar.

"What are you hiding, little one?" I wonder aloud, my voice lost in the din of the tavern.

A boisterous group enters, drawing Neela's attention. I watch as she tenses, her knuckles white around her tray. The leader of the group, a dark elf with a cruel smirk, reaches out and grabs her ass.

"There's my favorite little plaything," he leers.

Neela's smile falters for a moment, and I catch a glimpse of something... darker. A flash of power that's gone as quickly as it appeared.

"Welcome back, sir," she says, her voice steady despite the tremor I detect beneath. "Your usual table?"

As she leads them away, I narrow my eyes. There's more to this human than meets the eye. The despair that drew me here is only part of the puzzle. Beneath it all, there's a wellspring of untapped potential.

I settle in for a long night of observation. The mystery of Neela has piqued my interest, and I intend to unravel it, thread by tantalizing thread.