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The General Drow's Celebration {1/2}

Pairing: General!Minthara x Durge!AFAB!Reader

{Part 2}

Warnings/Tags: !!NSFW!! MDNI. BG3 Act II Heavy Spoilers. Minthara is, uh, evil. Exhibitionism, minor foodplay, bloodplay sorta (but its not either of yours), straight-up murder (also not either of you), general cultish things. Mention of poison. Part 1 doesn't include the actual smut but it will happen in part 2! Which I'll finish writing... eventually. Some Drow/Undercommon terms are used, I'm not super familiar I just looked shit up, there's a glossary thingy at the end. :)

Word Count: 3.4k

“Pitiful display. Bold of you to slight me so poorly. Your loyal fleet has been charged on account of your mistakes. Each throat slit. Yours is next.”

“Please, Nightwarden, you do not–”

“Silence,” she cuts back, crossing one of her legs over the other, her stern gaze intimidating even if it wasn’t backed by a history of bloodshed. “Abysmal absence of respect. Treacherous.”

“Shall we admit them to the cells?”

The drow snickers, waving her hand in a quick snap. “A waste that would be. We need the space for more valuable criminals. Slaughter the underling,” she commands, and the executioner raises the blade, but her palm lifts, and the order is paused. “No. Throw them to the shadows. Let them fend against the forsaken.”

“As you command, General,” the man replies, dipping his head and gathering up the chains that bind the betrayer’s wrists, dragging the pleading goblin out of the hall.

At last, it is empty. The line of criminals, cultists, and true souls sorted through. Another day comes to an end with the drow on the throne, another day bearing the late Ketheric’s title, wielding his power, and fate spins along as it should, weaving her pristine web of influence.

“General,” you hum, taking the opportunity to sit on the stone arm of her claimed throne, and she turns her head to look at you, a proud, passionate fire behind her eyes.

“Glorious, isn’t it, my love?” Minthara raises her hand and her slender fingers dance on your chin, feigning a gentle touch before she grips it, her thumb pressing into your jaw as she yanks you closer, her fanged grin growing. “Do you wish to taste the power?”

You smile in return, holding her gaze until she eyes your lips, the pride in the red of her eye soon joined by a similarly hued lust. You stay quiet for a few extra moments before finally responding. “I would like nothing more.”

Her tongue runs over her bottom lip before she pulls you closer, the kiss teasingly tender, and she breaks it in an instant. “Drink it in. My power is yours, dark one. Together, we reign.”

You inch forward, attempting to meet her lips again, but her grip grows more firm, and she forces you to remain stationary. “Nobody else is here,” you whisper, glancing between her lips and her eyes, and her gaze lifts to yours as she smirks.

“Precisely. How shall I lay claim to my property without an audience? You are too exquisite to be concealed,” she whispers, her words catching on your lips, her breath only serving to tease you further. You feel the faint sting of her poison, and it only drives you to deepen your yearning. “Tonight, we will feast. A new age of True Souls shall be celebrated. And I will claim you before our guests. You will be desired by all, but earned only by me. My slayer. My pet. My oloth.”

“He would be proud,” you praise, inching closer to her with your body, though your head remains still.

“I’m inclined to agree. A shame his sacrifice was a necessity. As is the cycle of hierarchy,” she states, releasing your chin, but pulling her own head away before you have a chance to take advantage of the freedom of movement. “We will coddle a new generation of warriors. Not with affection, but dedication. Swaddle them in viscera and nurse them to victory.”

“We’ll raise a force of blood-bringers,” you agree, and Minthara smirks, huffing out an amused exhale.

“Blood-bringers. A marvelous title for a marvelous army.” The drow presses her palms to the stone arms and pushes herself up, standing before the empty room. “Sine Thelids, we will be.” You feel an uncanny itch in your palms, and you shift uncomfortably. Your tadpole squirms, and Minthara lowers her head, sensing your edge. “Control, my slayer. We will march soon. The world will be ours – all thralls along with it. You will have your vengeance, and I shall have mine. Havoc will come to Orin, but it is the blood-bringers she will fear.”

“We will claim her life,” you second, standing up as well and joining her side, watching her as she looks over the empty throne room. Many times, she’s been seated off to the side. Only ever gazing at the throne that Ketheric so often sat in. With your help, however, her placement had changed. Rightfully, she had taken his power, his lead, just as you had helped her take his life. Ketheric was the first to fall, but he would not be the last.

“They shall bow to us. Each and every one. Extinguish their lives, and ignite their influence. We will be almighty,” she purrs, her chin tilting up ever so slightly, red eyes scanning the room one final time before she turns back to you, and holds out her hand. “Come. We must prepare for the banquet.”

It came as no surprise that Minthara had already planned an outfit for you; she had a plan for the banquet, and she intended to follow it through perfectly. That required your cooperation, even in the slightest of details. You weren’t complaining – it was a fine choice she’d made. Less surprising still was the nature of the clothing.

A personally tailored leather clasp for a neck piece, attaching to a particularly revealing shirt, cut with a wide triangle down the middle of your torso, leaving little to the imagination. You didn’t mind. Chances are, nothing would be left to the imagination by the end of the gathering, so you were going to take what you could get.

You clean yourself up of any lingering grime from the day, enjoying a short but relaxing bath before dressing yourself up in the clothes she had prescribed to you. Once you’re sure that you’re ready, you make your way downstairs to the audience hall, where Minthara waits at the bottom of the stairs, her hand offered to you as you approach.

It would be an understatement to say that suppressing a smile was difficult – pitted against her appearance, your physical display of enjoyment was far out of your control. Minthara was the type to look good in anything, though she usually stuck to her usual dark drow armor and her black, rigid evening clothes.

Tonight, however, was special. Her outfit reflected that in a way that almost took you by surprise.

Both of you were well-aware of the possibility of an attack. Not an attack on Moonrise, not an attack on The Absolute, but an attack on Minthara – with Ketheric the unkillable now, against all odds, gone and dead, there was sure to be turmoil between the higher ranking members of the cult. Minthara had been the one to dethrone him, to rob him of his power and his breath, and thus she had claimed his authority.

Not everyone was so willing to allow such an opportunity to slip out of their grasp. Z’rell had been taken care of even before Ketheric, as she posed the most significant threat. A few others, too – mostly those who had previously disrespected Minthara, made to pay their dues in the light of her new title.

Tonight, she would feast with potential enemies. Betrayers. She may feast with attempted assassinations, and it was unlikely the night would sail without bloodshed.

You did not expect a full suit of armor, but you had expected something more protective than the clothing she had decided upon. Her upper arms and shoulders were well-guarded with black leather shells, attaching to an equally thick leather that ran down her sides, though where defense mattered most – her abdomen, the simplest and most lethal place to strike – her purple skin was left revealed to the world.

Her legs were wrapped comfortably in black pants, and you know immediately that this is not an oversight on her part. Hardly so. It is a test. An offering – an opportunity for her silent enemies, her weakest spot left vulnerable to their hunger for power, a surefire bait. Minthara had not forgotten about her endangerment. She embraced it. Welcomed it. Challenged it.

“It fits,” she states, smirking as you take her hand in your own and step carefully down the final few steps, allowing her to drink in your appearance just as you had soaked in hers. “A good thing. I wish no harm upon our tailor – I have already removed his tongue, but I suspect he may need his fingers to continue his work. A troublesome ordeal seeking out a new tailor would prove,” she chuckles.

You turn to face her, and she takes your other hand as well, her red eyes judging your expression. “You look nice as well, General,” you praise, not bothering to hide your wandering gaze as you trail over her chest, the bra piece more than familiar to you. You dare to lift a finger, pulling your hand from hers, and snake it under the band over her sternum, pulling it down ever so slightly, your temptation getting the best of you.

Her slender fingers trace up your wrist, wrapping around and pulling your hand up to her mouth, pressing her lips to the back of it. “We shall be objects of desire tonight. Some may see vulnerability. It is in that liability we find our strength. Neither harm nor pleasure shall be brought upon you unless it is by my hand. That is an assurance.”

“They worship our power. Soon, our bodies alongside it, yes?” You ask, and Minthara smirks again, giving your hand another kiss.

“Our power. Our lethality. Our bodies. And we will worship one another.” At last, she releases your hand, and it returns to your side, though she still holds the other one. Gently – hardly afraid of losing you, or allowing you opportunity to slip away, for she knows you are hers, and she is yours. It is for that same reason that you don’t tighten your grip around her fingers. There is ample security and assurance without the need for a strong hold. Her gaze shifts to large wooden double doors, where light shines through the crack at the bottom. “Our squadron awaits. Ah,” – Minthara tilts her head – “Our blood-bringers.”

Providing a controlled nod in response, she leads you into the banquet hall, the table already arranged with the offerings of a feast, and ‘True Souls’ line the longer sides of the table, and at the head there are two empty chairs. Empty, that is, until Minthara guides you towards them, and you take a seat at one while she stands in front of the one beside you, releasing your hand in order to address the group.

You know everyone stationed at the table, though you aren’t quite familiar with all of them. You know each person’s name, but not everyone’s current rank, or how they served Ketheric during his reign. Those who you do immediately recognize consist of The Warden, who’s standing remains unchanged, the halfling Linsella, who has been granted an increase in authority, with Minthara permitting her reign over verified prisoners and hostages, allowing her to convert said captives as she pleases. Sitting two seats to your left is the skilled spy Marcus, who you recall once yearned to be the right-hand of the late general. As far as you’re aware, he has remained a mere spy, but high in the ranks nonetheless.

“A waste of precious time it would be, were I to spare words of mourning for Thorm,” Minthara announces, all eyes pinned on her, save for yours. “He served well, but he serves no more. I plan no delegation over the loss. We move forward, as the Absolute commands,” she continues, and the True Souls each dip their heads, murmuring out quiet agreements; ‘In Her name.’

She does well to hide the truth. You have always admired her, both for her prevalence in battle and her combined willingness and capability to achieve further power where she sees possibility. Few manage to look past morals as she does, few are as earnestly eager as she is with their dreams.

Her faith was crushed, the truth revealed in ways that would desecrate any other’s ambition, had they been in her shoes. Alas, she is Minthara of house Baenre, and she seizes opportunity the moment it presents itself. With one stone in her grasp, and an oblivious, willing army at her disposal, she poses a far larger threat to the other chosen than they may have ever thought possible.

“You sit in his throne,” A man speaks up, two chairs to your left – Marcus, the spy, “You serve his meals, you command his troops, and yet you disrespect his name wholly.” He speaks with a growl, and dares to rise, making his intentions clear to the room, his target included.

Minthara pulls her torso back, and she meets his eye, her palms resting flat on the table. No longer hidden beneath the table, a greatclub is grasped tightly in his right hand, his knuckles tinted white from the tension in his hold. “Ketheric disrespected his name to far greater lengths than I would ever have the words to manage. And so creatively, too,” she chuckles, her tone brimming with clear-cut confidence, and although you attempt to reassure yourself, you feel your heart skip a beat, momentarily silently fearing for her safety. You see no daggers, no means of defense on her person, and yet she smiles all the same.

Marcus scoffs, grimacing, leaning towards the drow, the fire in his eyes fueled entirely by resentment. “Attempt no trickery by mouth – Our General wanted you disposed of, and I intend to carry out his orders as my final judgment by the Absolute.”

“Pathetic. Loyalty to a dead man serves no greater purpose – only a grave.” Minthara sneers, her next words joined by a tone of stable, smooth mockery, “Do you expect him to rise again? Fulfill his wishes, and his head will roll back onto the neck I severed it from? The Absolute has already judged you well and true. I’m afraid your devotion is tardy. Had you served him so faithfully while his corpse was animate, perhaps he may have led a longer rule. Alas, I shall reward your allegiance, and reunite you with your Bossk.”

Marcus’ scowl pulls wrinkles in his forehead, his arm twitching – the split-second jerk being movement enough to warn Minthara of his next move. He charges, raising his greatclub, eyes pinning a target on her skull. You’re not granted a chance to so much as flinch before Minthara retrieves a dagger from its place in a sheath attached to the bottom of the table, raising her arm as the blade is precisely swiped across the man’s throat, spraying the immediate area in his blood.

That immediate area being you, Minthara, the two True Souls sitting closest, and part of the prepared meal on the table.

The spy’s body falls with a final gurgle, and Minthara spins her blade to capture it in a firmer grip, her blood-kin gaze serving a silent order to the stunned audience. “Rath’arg. Do any other false believers wish to challenge me? To take my head would be a grant of my authority. Do strike now, daring lambs, for tonight I am willing to grant mercy and bestow quick deaths upon traitors.”

Her breath is steady – she is not tense, but firm, and the True Souls exchange glances with one another, each and every one remaining silent and submissive. Though her fine attire is splattered with the blood of a betrayer, she remains unphased. True to her mission, allowing no room for distractions, nor for doubt.

When she is assured, she sets her dagger on the table beside her, and she dips her head. “Very well. Feast, warriors, for we need our strength. In Her name,” she states, her eyes closing for only a moment.

“In Her name,” the party recites, beginning to indulge themselves in the food less affected by the close death, but Minthara turns instead to you, her own personal repast, free from the intermingling of her underlings. The True souls speak, quietly, amongst one other – discussing the Absolute, the rise of their new General, and similar such topics.

Her bloodied purple hand is offered to you, and you accept, rising from your seat at her physical request. Few eyes are drawn to you, for the time being – you don’t bother to take count, to truly decipher how many pay attention to your activities. Minthara pulls you closer, her free hand cradling your jaw and wiping Marcus’ blood from your lips, allowing her to kiss you without risking a taste of the coward. For a short moment, the contact is broken, and her nose brushes with yours, gaze intense with a roused lust from the bloodshed. “However intense our reign may become, however great our influence grows, know that at the center of my drive is where you lie. You are mine, as I am yours. We are bound as one – in body, in soul, in power.” There’s a pause in which you make an attempt to reconnect your lips, but she pulls back, her mouth instead moving towards your ear, her tone lowering to a whisper, ensuring only you may receive her message. “Bow as we may to the Absolute, pray as we may to their lies, you are my true quar'valsharess. My deity, and mine alone.”

Knowing how much she risks by admitting that in a room full of the Absolute’s followers, however quiet of an admission it was, is more than enough to make your heart flutter, stomach pleasantly uneased by a disturbance of butterflies. You pivot as a hand on your hip guides you to press your back against the edge of the table, and the dishes behind you are pushed aside, likely much to the dismay of the nearest True Souls. Minthara’s lips trail over your lightly bloodied neck, no longer caring whether or not the blood invades her taste, merely enjoying the flavor of her success on your skin.

While she delivers no verbal commands or physical guidance, you understand her intentions well enough to assist her in carrying them out. So, you lift yourself onto your ankles and hop just enough to steady yourself on the table, immediately finding that she invades the space between your legs, bringing her hips closer to yours. Her kisses continue to trail down, littering every available space that her selected clothing allows her to access. Hands run along your sides, caressing over the full length twice before they linger on the sliver of skin between the top and bottom pieces of your outfit. When her mouth reaches that section as well, your leather pants are dragged downward, shedding her territory of protection, vulnerable to her touch – to her command.

When they bunch at your knees, thighs against the wooden table, your only means of defense being your thin, weak layer of underwear, Minthara pauses, standing up straight once more. A hand presses to your chest, pushing you backwards, though your hips remain stationary – you lay back, displayed across the bloodied feast as if you were one with it. All eyes are on you, now, but Minthara’s attention is the only attention that matters to you. Even if you don’t threaten to disobey or refuse, her palm is firm on your chest, forcing you to keep position.

“True Souls,” she addresses, instantly gaining the room’s undivided interest. “Speak my title.”

“General Minthara,” the audience replies, and her smirk grows, revealing flashes of her hungry teeth.

Louder, she repeats; “Speak my title.”

“General Minthara!”

Her hand slides up your body, finding purchase around your throat, and she meets your gaze, her prideful smile meant entirely for you. “Tonight, we celebrate two deaths. The death of Late General Thorm, and the death of The Nightwarden. Indulge in the wine and feast as you deem fit – a rebirth occurs this evening. A rebirth of values. A rebirth of power. A rebirth of The Absolute.” Her gaze lifts, meeting the intrigued smiles of her soldiers. “Hear the testament of my reign – straight from the voice of darkness,” Minthara chuckles, eyes drawn once more to you. “Speak my title, dear oloth.”

With a lustful smile, you oblige; “General Minthara.”

“General Minthara,” she agrees, leaning over the table to meet your lips, hand tightening around your throat, robbing you of breath in the two ways she knows best.

(1) Oloth – Darkness (Drow) (2) Sine Thelid – Great Conqueror (Undercommon) (3) Bossk – Lord (Undercommon) (4) Rath’arg – Coward (Drow) (5) Quar’valsharess – Goddess (Drow)

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