The Diaper Boys of Droaam: Chapter One
#1 of The Diaper Boys of Droaam
Just over the border of the monstrous nation of Droaam, a floating fortress crossing over from Breland is sabotaged and grounded by a crack team of insurgents: Mal Andras, the Tiefling Sorcerer; Kheran Ebonhorn, the Minotaur Barbarian; Des, the Changeling Bard; and Lexis of Ardev, the Shifter Rogue. But who are these four remarkable comrades -- and why do they always smell like pee?
Centuries ago, the Sarlonan island chain of Ohr Kaluun was invaded by crusaders from neighboring Khalesh. Four brothers, desperate to protect their home from the aggressors, conducted a dark eldritch ritual to gain power from the Outer Planes. Each was transformed into a Tiefling and bestowed with incredible arcane might, but this alone was not enough. They beseeched the great planar entities for even more power, offering parts of their own bodies as sacrifice.
The eldest brother, the passionate and fiery Molesh, gave up his hands to a Pit Fiend of Fernia, and was granted terrifying pyromancy. The second, the fierce and bloodthirsty Orobas, gave up his tongue to a Balor of Shavarath, and was granted unparalleled martial prowess. The third, the stern and serious Bereth, gave up his eyes to an Amnizu of Daanvi, and was granted the power to dominate the wills of others.
The youngest brother, the scheming and conniving Andras, desired more power than any of his elder siblings, but for a less costly sacrifice. He gave up his tail, an organ he had gained only by becoming a Tiefling, to the Empress of Shadow, the greatest native power of Mabar. To the surprise of all, he was granted peerless ability in necromancy and shadow-weaving. However, his mockery of a sacrifice brought unforeseen consequences to him and his descendents...
Deep within the steel-reinforced bowels of the floating fortress Dejarn, far below the helm at the bow, a dark, spacious chamber reverberated with a trio of pulsating hums. Three fist-sized Khyber Dragonshards, mounted in sturdy metal pedestals, cast a dim glow on the stone floor, red, white, and brown light swirling within in rhythm with the sound. About forty feet back from the row of pedestals, a Gnome sat before a panel of levers and switches, clad in Brelish crimson and gold artificer's robes. His boots were kicked up on the panel, and his round, red nose was buried in a book, occasionally looking up to examine the crystals or the panel for a moment.
Twenty feet overhead, shrouded in the darkness of the rafters, Mal peered out from under the hood of his black cloak and analyzed the situation in the room. One ebony-skinned hand dipped into the leather pouch on his belt, rifling around deftly until brushing against a thin flake of mica. The Tiefling drew in a deep breath, concentrating on the shadowy energy flowing through his veins, and his free hand traced the shape of an Infernal sigil in the air. With a silent plume of inky smoke, the mica vanished, and he focused his gaze intently on the whitish Dragonshard in the middle of the row.
Instantly, a deafening ringing noise filled the chamber, followed by the tinkling of now-dark crystal shards littering all across the floor. Where the center Dragonshard was once mounted, a roaring, vaguely humanoid tempest hovered menacingly, then soared straight up and disappeared into the grates of an air duct. The Gnome bolted upright and threw his book down, then touched the Speaking Stone in his ear.
"Captain, this is Lieutenant Tonan. The Air Elemental just broke out!" he exclaimed, panic readily apparent in his tone. "Diverting all power to vertical thrust."
In a moment, his hands flew across the control panel, pulling levers and pushing buttons until a siren began to wail from the larger Speaking Stone mounted on the wall. The reddish light within the leftmost crystal began to glow brighter, and at a more rapid pace.
Pulling out a second piece of mica, Mal repeated the spell, and the terrible ringing returned. Pieces of the Dragonshard on the left clattered around the room, and a raging inferno now stood on the floor directly in front of its pedestal. The Gnome squeaked in fear, again alerting his superior officer and frantically mashing an array of controls, then bolted from his post and ran toward the door, slamming it shut behind him. The Fire Elemental followed mindlessly in a straight line, stepping over the discarded book and setting it ablaze, then followed the Gnome out of the room by slipping between the door and the threshold.
The brown-tinged light from the one remaining crystal pulsed at an aggressive pace, now the only force that kept the colossal fortress afloat. Not wanting to tussle with the Air Elemental in the duct he had entered through, Mal gingerly dropped to the ground and fished around in his pouch. Producing a small charred twig, he began to prepare his spell while dashing toward the door. He peered over his shoulder and extended an arm back, and from it erupted a crackling blue bolt of raw electricity. Just as it made contact with the last Dragonshard and reduced it to a rain of tiny pieces, his other hand landed on the door handle. Giving it a jostle, he suddenly felt damp with cold sweat - the door was locked from the other side.
A resounding thud echoed throughout the room, followed by another, louder than the siren still blaring. Whipping around to face the source of the sound, Mal stared into the face-like boulder atop the jagged form of the Earth Elemental that trudged toward him. His reservoir of magical energy was running dry, and the pouch at his hip similarly approached emptiness. Though the Fire Elemental was long gone, and the burning book now reduced to a smoldering lump of ash, he felt a sudden warmth spreading between his thighs.
Since time immemorial, the barbarian Minotaur clans on the eastern bank of the Blackwater River had warred with one another. This conflict, chiefly over land or resources, often took the form of theological disputes; all four clans worshipped the Horned Prince, but none could agree whether this deity was a divine Sovereign or an fiendish Overlord, representing primal savagery or cunning treachery. Then, several centuries ago, the bloodshed suddenly came to an end.
The unexpected arrival of Sarlonan refugees might have prickled the native denizens elsewhere in Khorvaire, but not so in Droaam - in no small part because the migrants sailing up the Blackwater River were led by four princely families of Tieflings, with great gleaming horns atop their heads. They offered to share their wealth of arcane knowledge with the Minotaurs, in exchange for service: able hands for the heirs of Molesh, seeing eyes for the heirs of Bereth, and so on.
The heirs of Andras, most junior of the Council of Four, had grown spiteful and petty in the face of their shameful affliction, and because of their lower rank among the Venom Lords. When the Ebonhorn clan entered their service, the dark Tieflings ensured - either through mundane manipulation or a sorcerous curse, none can recall which - that their servants would forget their most base of instincts and forever suffer the same embarrassing fate...
Heaving his glaive through the skull of the Human who had charged toward him, Kheran barely blinked as a torrent of blood and spinal fluid splashed across his face and exposed torso. The Minotaur handily dislodged his weapon from the corpse, as though it were light as a rapier, and thrust the handle back behind himself blindly. It made contact with a thud, and he let out a terrifying laugh as the Dwarf who had attempted to catch him off-guard instead went flying overboard. Though five more red and gold-clad enemies still encircled him, they certainly looked less confident than they had when he first landed on the deck.
Suddenly, from a Sending Stone mounted on the side of the command building, the drone of a siren filled the air, so loudly that it seemed to echo off the ice-capped mountains on the starboard side.
"He's not alone!" a surly Half-Orc soldier barked.
"Get below deck!" a Human cried out, sprinting toward the nearby door.
"Not gonna happen..." Kheran growled, lowering his head and aiming his horns at the runner. "This dance ain't over!"
In his peripheral vision, he noticed that the slow northward crawl of the floating fortress had come to a halt. Assuming that it was Mal's doing, and not some kind of security protocol, Kheran surmised that their job was almost complete. This meant that the drop was coming. Intellectually, he knew that the bottom of the fortress was only thirty feet above the ground, but instinctually, the thought of the massive vessel on which he stood suddenly plummeting downward put a heavy weight in the pit of his stomach.
Pushing that worry aside, he charged ahead and gored the fleeing Human with his horns. Before he could shake his head to dislodge the bleeding and screaming man, the Half-Orc had run up alongside him and wrapped his muscular arms around Kheran's waist. Another soldier, a Half-Elf, took advantage of the Minotaur's grappled state, and thrust a spear into his ruddy-furred flank. He let out a gruff snort of pain and bucked his head back, sending the impaled Human tumbling through the air in an arc, knocking the Half-Elf over. But still, the Half-Orc remained latched onto him, and now delivered a forceful punch right where the spear had pierced him.
While Kheran attempted to wriggle free, a tremor reverberated throughout the deck below, and in an instant, everything seemed to lurch downward. He froze in place, but unexpectedly, the Half-Orc's grip seemed to loosen.
"What's that smell?" the soldier sniffed, with a repulsed expression on his face. "Did you just..."
Before he could complete the sentence, Kheran swung the glaive into his neck at full force, and his body crumpled to the floor as his head flew across the deck. The weight in the Minotaur's stomach was gone, but the seat of his breeches felt quite a bit heavier.
From the first day that the city of Graywall opened its gates for trade with other nations, there had been a market for all forms of intimate companionship. Humanoid visitors, often biased against such liaisons with members of the so-called "monstrous" races, were willing to pay a great deal of gold for a night, or even an hour, with someone more closely resembling their preferred partners. In this niche, a wandering Changeling bard from the mythic city of Lost amassed a modest fortune and a certain reputation.
Even the most prolific lush has biological limitations to their performance, though, which led this Changeling to seek some alchemical assistance. Night Hags, being interplanar collectors of knowledge and rare ingredients, make unparalleled alchemists, enough so to encourage some to overlook their knack for trickery and malice.
Once he stumbled upon the Night Hag Jabra's shop in Graywall, the Changeling from Lost looked no further for his elixir. Jabra promised a tonic that would, "instill his member with endless youth and vitality, and bless him with emissions like a fresh spring." In his naïveté, the bard forgot the proverb that every Changeling child is taught: "Beware the gifts of the Traveler..."
Theatrically blowing the end of his flute, as if the spell he'd just cast had left it smoking, Des ducked back around the ventilation duct on the roof of the command building. So far, the plan had gone swimmingly; he'd made himself invisible and snuck onto the roof, and remained concealed until Kheran swung aboard. He allowed the Minotaur to make a spectacle and draw the attention of the melee fighters on deck, while one-by-one he picked off the mages and archers standing back at a distance. Based on the time between the Half-Orc shouting and the fortress crashing to the ground, everyone had been under the impression that Kheran was alone until Mal had already started his work in the engine room.
Spectating the sheer bloodsport of Kheran finishing up with the Citadel agents below, Des hardly noticed the growing noise beginning to echo from within the vent behind him, until it was visibly shaking from side to side. He just barely tucked in and somersaulted out of the way before an amorphous whirlwind burst through the grate, then lingered a moment as it appeared to coalesce into a humanoid shape. Unsure whether or not an Elemental escapee would have any interest in combat, he jumped to his feet and stood with legs akimbo, flute at the ready like it was a blowgun.
"They've got one on the roof!" A voice called out from below.
Des turned to identify who had spotted him, and felt a spear nearly brush the back of his neck, barely missing him but passing through the Elemental beyond him. Before he could realize that, the Elemental charged in a straight line toward the source of its disturbance -- which meant Des was thrown like a ragdoll, down toward the deck below. Luckily, he had chosen the form of a lithe Phiarlan Elf for this mission, and was able to make a relatively painless landing on the headless corpse of a Half-Orc.
A nearby Halfling, bracing his quarterstaff before aiming another strike toward Kheran, turned his head around and noticed Des just as the Changeling got back up to his feet. With a menacing smirk, he thrust the staff with his backhand, jabbing the bard square in the groin. In a second, though, his smirk became a revolted grimace: instead of a pained cry or groan, Des merely gave a shudder and a strangely lustful whine. Then, taking advantage of his opponent's perturbedness, he clutched his flute and pressed it to his lips.
A sickening, discordant melody audible only to the Halfling began to play, bouncing around inside his mind until some neural switch was flipped, as he covered his ears and bolted as far into the command building as his stubby legs would carry him. Curious, Des reached a hand down to his crotch and cupped it tentatively. The fabric there gave a soft crinkle, and he chuckled, thankful that his attire was functional in more ways than one.
After almost a century of war, even the small rural towns of the Five Nations had become home to numerous orphanages, sanctuaries for children whose homes, parents, and history had been wrested from them by the ceaseless violence. Ardev, the quiet Brelish hamlet known only as a rest stop on the western trade roads, was no exception, becoming home to a great many orphans after large-scale conflict began between Brelish settlers and the native races beyond the Graywall Mountains.
One night, though, a Swiftstride Shifter infant appeared on the doorstep of the Ardev orphanage. In this village, home to only Humans and Half-Elves as permanent residents, the young feline boy was regarded as an oddity -- even among other orphans, he was ostracized, regarded as a troublemaker, and blamed for misdeeds he didn't always commit.
Unsurprisingly, he ran away while still a child, learning to eke out a living alone in the jungle only by honing his most base and primal instincts. Amid this life of semi-feral solitude, he kept only a precious few possessions from his time in Ardev: among them, a small worn stuffed mouse, a chewed-up pacifier, and other baubles given to him by a kind matron of the orphanage at a very young age. In times of particular stress and struggle, he would indulge himself, imagining the few brief occasions in his life in which he was made to feel safe, warm, and cared for...
Blocking yet another strike of the Changeling captain's dagger with the shaft of his spear, Lexis found a moment to peer over his shoulder and out the window, where Kheran and Des had just put down the last of the agents on the main deck.
"I have hundreds more men at my disposal." Captain Vron balked, parrying a spear thrust just before it could nick one of the gold straps decorating his scarlet leather armor.
"And we'll kill 'em dead too." The Shifter flashed his razor-sharp teeth with a fierce smirk.
The two rogues had been locked in a dance of swipes and stabs back and forth across the office for several minutes, seemingly equally matched, but having destroyed Vron's desk, several chairs, and half of the curtains that hung by the broad plate-glass windows in the process. The Shifter had a fresh slice near the tip of his pointed ear, and the Changeling had several bloody claw marks on his chest, but neither showed any signs of slowing down.
Almost backed into a corner, Vron ducked low and rolled across the floor, shooting a leg upward in the process and splintering the spear shaft right between the grips of Lexis' clawed hands. The Shifter snarled, futilely trying to jam the busted ends down and missing, then casting the ruined weapon to the floor and charging his opponent head-on. He was able to plant his hands on Vron's shoulders, stopping the dagger from reaching his throat by mere inches, and digging his claws down to dissuade any further motion.
"They'll come looking for me." Vron winced. "Whole armies."
"They'll have to cross 'em mountains to get here. Should've stayed on your side."
Lexis was in a difficult situation. He was given strict instruction to take Captain Vron alive, and provided a vial of Essence of Ether to make such a task feasible. The rag bearing the contents vial was in a pouch on his hip, but both his hands were currently busy stopping his mark from slicing his gullet wide open. One wrong move would spell his death, or that of his opponent.
Relying solely on his innate animal instincts, he let one hand free and reached for Vron's dagger hand, then snapped the other to his pouch. At the same moment, Vron dropped the dagger from his raised hand to his lowered one, and made an upward swipe for Lexis' abdomen. Just in time, the Shifter was able to yank out the rag and press it to the Changeling's mouth and nose, and in an instant, the pale gray body went limp and slumped to the floor. The knife fell too, with a clang -- as did Lexis' belt, which had been sliced through in Vron's final second of consciousness, and accordingly, his trousers did as well.
Standing there, in the ruined office of the captain of the King's Dark Lanterns, clad in nothing but his olive cloak, underclothes of waterproof oiled wool, and the thick flannel diaper underneath, Lexis felt it was a moment he wouldn't soon forget. Nonetheless, he tied Vron's limbs together with his ragged trousers, heaved the limp body up into his arms, trudged over to the window overlooking his comrades, and threw the Changeling through the glass. Drawing immense satisfaction from the thump of the body hitting the deck, he jumped out after it and landed gracefully on the deck below.
"This is the Captain?" Des inquired, prodding the unconscious body with the end of his flute.
"Better be." Lexis huffed, then pulled off his cloak and tied its sleeves around his waist in an attempt to better conceal the infantile garb underneath. "Fits the description, don't he?"
At that moment, Mal burst through the door of the command building. The tailless Tiefling was covered in a fine layer of brown dust, and his cloak had a few more slashes and shreds on it than when the others had last seen him, but overall he looked no worse for wear.
"There's four more inside; I don't think they noticed me." Mal reached into his pouch and produced a small fluffy down feather. "Ready to go?"
"Just say the word, boss." Kheran slid his glaive into its harness on his back, and bent down to hoist Vron over his shoulder. "Think I'll catch a rash if we don't get out soon."
Mal recited another Infernal incantation and masterfully wagged his fingers. As the feather disappeared into black smoke, the four insurgents ran to the edge of the deck. Without a moment's hesitation, they jumped, and rather than plummeting down like rocks, they drifted at a relatively gentle pace, landing on the soft jungle floor below with no issue. Just as quickly and silently as they'd approached the fortress, they vanished into the woods.
After several minutes, Lexis froze in place and raised his sensitive nose to the air, giving a few sniffs.
"Give us a Gust, Mal." He muttered.
"You think they're following us?" The Tiefling scoffed. "We've downed their ship behind enemy lines; I think they have enough to worry about."
"Maybe. Likely not." The Shifter admitted. "But if they do, Kheran's leaving a scent trail like a wildfire in the night. If one of 'em's got a nose half as good as mine, we're buggered."
Beneath his dense coat of fur, the Minotaur blushed, and fell to the back of the marching order as they continued trudging on toward the setting sun.
In the tallest tower of the ancient Dhakaani fortress of Sharaat Kol, the warlord Kethelrax sat contentedly atop his oversized throne. Four adventurers stood before him, and two hulking Gargoyles carried a bound and gagged Changeling out of the chamber.
"We'll ensure that our guest is kept comfortable until Sora Katra arrives..." the Kobold plucked a glass of dark liquid from the table beside his throne and swirled it in his talons. "Relatively speaking. As for you four, you're welcome to stay here in the palace until you're redeployed. It's the least I can offer you for eliminating this threat."
"Such hospitality is much appreciated, your lordship." Des gave a deep. dramatic bow, his natural silvery-gray skin gleaming despite having trekked thirty miles in the jungle through the night and morning.
"It was our pleasure, my lord." Mal clasped his hands and gave a curt nod, still mostly covered in a fine layer of brown silt from his duel with the Earth Elemental.
"You got a bath here?" Lexis spat, absentmindedly picking the congealed blood of some poor Brelish soldier out of his whiskers.
"Several." Kethelrax smirked, savoring a sip. "My castellans would be more than happy to give you a tour, once we've finished up business here."
The party shared the location where the fortress Dejarn had fallen, in the southeastern foothills of the Graywall Mountains, as well as its direction of travel, and discussed bolstering defenses around the city until it was clear that the surviving Citadel agents weren't pursuing their captive commander. When matters were concluded, a well-dressed Goblin led the four of them through the winding hallways of the fortress, pointing out several spacious bathing areas along the way.
Despite the modern stereotypes of Goblinoids being dirty, barbaric folk, the ancient Dhakaani left behind countless testaments to a legacy of cleanliness. Lexis was brought to a spacious suite of stone, decorated with ornamentation of polished brass. Scarcely paying the accommodations any mind, he set down his spear and the small bindle containing all his other possessions, and traced his path back to the closest hot bath.
Being midday, the chamber was thankfully empty, silent but for an enchanted pitcher pouring a babbling stream of water endlessly into the pool. Along the walls stood several brass statues of Hobgoblin royals long since passed, and one conspicuously newer one depicting a Kobold with a grossly exaggerated stature and physique. Tiled steps and a railing led down into the still, clear waters, next to a rack holding several rows of neatly folded towels.
Closing his eyes and taking a whiff of the lightly perfumed vapor rising off the basin's surface, Lexis double-checked over his shoulder to ensure he was still alone before casting his robe-cum-kilt to the floor. He slid a claw into the leather cord knotted at each of his hips, loosening the waistband of his woolen waterproofs, and let them fall to the ground unceremoniously. The thickly-layered flannel diaper wrapped snugly around his waist still appeared mostly dry, at least from the exterior, and he grumbled while foreseeing the chiding Kheran would give him when he dropped his laundry off with the Minotaur.
After carefully removing the pins and tucking the damp bundle of fabric into the crotch of his waterproofs on the floor, Lexis dipped a toe into the water, finding it pleasantly warm. He'd spent over a decade alone in the wilderness, with rivers and ponds as his only source of cleansing and grooming. Very few things stirred positive thoughts of civilization in his mind quite like a hot bath. Taking a seat on a bench built into the side of the basin, and slumping back until the water was at his chest, he let a hand drift down between his thighs, and teased the smooth fur there to wash out the caked white crushstone powder that clung to it. A contented sigh blew out of his nostrils, with a hint of a purr, and he let his eyes shut.
"Oh, dear..." the Half-Elf tutted tenderly. "Happened again, did it?"
"Mmhmm." Lexis pouted, eyes glued to the floorboards as he stepped into the room.
"I'll draw a bath. Why don't you tell me what happened - and get those wet clothes off, before you catch a cold."
"The other boys took Mister Mousey while I was in reading class. They were tossing him around when I got back." He sniffled, unfastening the waist of his damp breeches and peeling them down his legs. "I chased them, and then...I didn't notice..."
"It's alright, kitten." She turned from the wooden washtub filling at the tap to help him pull his shirt up over his arms. "You're a growing boy, and these things happen. You just have to try a little harder at paying attention to what your body tells you, okay?"
"Don't call me 'kitten'." He hissed, folding his arms. "That's what Sander and Beren call me when they're bullying me."
"I'm sorry, love."
Testing the temperature of the bathwater with the back of her hand, she carefully pushed the tub to the center of the room, and took the young Shifter's hand to lead him to it. Trusting her judgement, he gingerly hopped up over the side and positioned himself at the very center of the cramped tub. By virtue of his heritage, Lex was much larger and lankier than any of his peers at the orphanage. A thin scruff of tawny beige fur was already beginning to grow on his forearms, the same hue as the shaggy mane on his head.
A warm guiding palm tenderly clasped the back of his neck, and instinctually Lexis closed his eyes and tilted his head back. Handfuls of water soaked through his hair, until finally it was wet down to his scalp, and a terry washcloth delicately scrubbed his neck and shoulders. Ordinarily, the other kids his age only took baths a couple times a week. Lexis never much minded playing in dirt or mucking around in the marsh -- but the soothing touch of being bathed was, quite possibly, the only thing capable of calming him down after one of his embarrassing accidents.
"I know you've still been having trouble at night too, Lex." The woman pulled away, before returning with a hairbrush, and gently tousling out the knots in his hair. "Mother Tabin told me she had to throw out your mattress last week."
To that, Lexis offered no verbal reply -- only a huff.
"She asked me to start having you wear some protection to bed."
"I told you last time: I'm not a baby." He bared his teeth in a snarl. "I'm not wearing a diaper."
"I know you're not happy about it. I don't expect you to be." She sighed. "But mattresses cost money, love, and we don't have too much. Besides, no one else has to know; it can be our secret. I can help get you dressed for bed, it'll be under your pajamas and your sheets, and I'll clean you up in the morning. How does that sound?"
"Expecting company, kitten?"
Lexis' neck snapped upright, and he realized his hand was still lingering in between his legs, yanking it away on reflex.
"Oh, fuck off."
"Well, I'm not getting lost in this labyrinth of a place, trying to find my own private bath." Des retorted, casting off his tunic and baggy pants masterfully. "You'll have to learn to share sometime."
The Changeling wore translucent waterproofs, prepared from some alchemical mix of tree sap, which clearly displayed the drenched state of his diaper underneath. The thirsty flannel fabric that Kheran had provided them was capable of handling quite a bit of usage, but their journey through the jungle had been long and hot, and Des had ensured to stay hydrated. With a deft sleight of hand, he popped the pins out and pulled the whole sodden garment off in one fell swoop, then let it plop to the tiled floor.
"That desperate to catch me alone, huh?" Lexis taunted, spreading his legs out on the bench.
"Ha ha. That joke never gets old." Des deadpanned.
It was difficult to make out against his almost-pearlescent skin, but a small bead of viscous white fluid clung to the tip of his member, before dripping down onto the floor as he began to stride toward the tub, and another wept out to take its place. Des' organ was remarkably small, more like a limp acorn than anything one would expect to find on the lush of a bard. As Lexis had learned early in his travels with the Changeling, its size remained constant no matter what form he chose to take -- and it was constantly leaking one liquid or another.
"Neither does being called 'kitten'." Lexis snapped.
"Sensitive, sensitive, always so sensitive." Des clicked his tongue as he slowly entered the water, wrenching his face a bit as his crotch splashed through the surface. "Do try to loosen up from time to time."
"I'm sorry, Mister Des." The Halfling stepped away from the table to wash her hands at the Cleansing Stone on the wall. "There is, honestly, nothing further for us to try."
"You mean..." The Changeling guffawed. "You mean to tell me that I've spent every last gold Gallifar, gallivanted everywhere from Vralkek to Varna, endured lotions and lozenges and leeches...and I'm stuck like this?"
"All I can say at this point is: consider wearing a pad of some sort, and find yourself a very understanding lover." She held her divination wand to the Cleansing Stone for a moment, set it down, and started to take off her long white coat, which revealed the bold Dragonmark gracing her bicep. "I understand your lot operates some businesses down in the Dragoneyes district for just that, if you can spare any more coin."
Des hopped off the table and snatched his robe from the chair beside it, shifting his form into the tall blonde Human one he'd worn on the way in. Even if he'd had the coin to part with, he was certain that visiting a brothel or pleasure parlor would only frustrate him even further. At this point, his silk robe and his flute were just about the only things he had to his name -- and if it were possible to sell a name, he'd have exhausted that option already.
It was a rainy day on the streets of Dragon Towers, not quite so common for an upper district in Sharn, but fitting nonetheless, Des thought to himself. At least the water stains on his robe would mask the ones caused by its occasional brushing up against his overly sensitive bits. Beyond the sheer humiliation of his current predicament, he felt that his own hubris had turned him into a failure as a Changeling: unable to fully change his shape (or in this case, his size, continence, and state of erection.) And oh, the irony -- to lose control of the very first organ most Changeling boys ever tried to alter!
With no gold left to hail a skycab, Des had no option but to walk. To where, exactly, he was unsure. He could return to Graywall, but what waited for him there? His member was more than a personal treasure, it was the very foundation of his career, perhaps even moreso than his flute! He could go back to Lost -- assuming he could find it -- but doing so would be admitting defeat. When one lived their life devoted to the ways of the Traveler, they did not simply stop traveling one day, pack up and turn homeward.
A Hippogriff soared downward from the Skyway district overhead, blowing a gust of wind onto the sidewalk and rustling Des' clothing. He froze midstep, biting his lip and shuddering, as a squirt of fluid painted the inside of his robe. Whether it was piss or pre-cum, he was unsure and unconcerned -- the two almost seemed to blend together these days. It was as though the slightest sensation, even that of urine leaving his body, sent him instantly into a very productive climax. The volume, in itself, was unnatural, considering he'd been drinking three times as much water since the day he drank that damned potion.
Recomposing himself after a minute and a sigh, he continued to plod in the same direction. He couldn't afford to have philosophical concerns about the broad path of his life -- at the moment, he couldn't afford anything at all. What mattered at that point was where he'd be getting his next meal. Breaking his gaze from the cobblestone at his feet when the savory aroma of tribex stew graded his nostrils, Des looked up to see the familiar signage of the ubiquitous Gold Dragon Inn. If it was anything like the one in Graywall, there would be a dumpster out back teeming with a bountiful cornucopia of still-hot food. Better yet, one might be able to negotiate a paid musical performance with the Ghallandas inside.
"Finished sewing this one up last night, when I was keeping watch over the prisoner." Kheran remarked as he pulled the thick flannel square from his pack, holding the margins up to his large, dark eyes to examine the stitching. "Might be a bit scratchy, since it hasn't been washed yet."
"If it's all you've got, I suppose." Mal sighed, sprawled out on the foot of the bed with his bare ebony legs hanging off the edge.
"Unless you want one of the nighttime ones. Or one of mine, I suppose." The Minotaur let out a rumbling laugh as he set the diaper beside the Minotaur, and grabbed several smaller fabric scraps and his tin of crushstone powder off the floor. "Remember how that worked out last time?"
"I'd rather I didn't." He threw his hands up onto his face.
At least three times a day, for fifteen years at minimum, they'd shared this ritual. Such was the way of the Heirs of Andras and their Ebonhorn attendants -- from the day a Minotaur was able to change his own diapers, he was sworn responsible for changing those of his Tiefling master too. Shortly thereafter, Kheran had picked up the art of sewing and laundering diapers for the both of them, and eventually, even tanning and oiling leather to craft it into waterproofs.
After untying the waist strings of said waterproofs and pulling them off in one fluid motion, Kheran caught both of Mal's ankles in his hands, and bent down at the knee so they could be placed comfortably on his shoulders. His massive, calloused fingers made quick work of the pins, plucking them out of the soggy cloth with one hand and tossing them into the other. The Minotaur stood up slightly more upright now, lifting Mal's tailless behind off the bed so that the wet diaper could be slid out from underneath, and the dry one could replace it. This new one was far thinner, flat and only two-ply -- laughably underequipped if he intended to wear it for long, but appropriate for bathing in a shared space, according to custom back in the Venomous Demesne. The smaller squares of fabric were used to wipe the lingering moisture from his smooth onyx loins, his manhood swelling a bit as Kheran rolled back the foreskin with his thumb to clean the sensitive inside. A puff of hot breath shot out of Mal's nose.
What they shared was an antiquated arrangement, and both of them knew this. But they had grown up alongside each other since before either could remember, with their fathers living in the same arrangement, as had their fathers before them. It was natural, a bond neither had any interest in breaking. Even after an Heir of Andras' marriage, the Ebonhorns serving each spouse would marry as well -- often making marriage arrangements a very precarious matter, best left to negotiations of families and consultation of oracles. Such a thing mirrored the traditions of the other three lines of Venom Lords, with Heirs of Molesh and their Bloodhorns, Heirs of Orobas and their Ironhorns, and so on. One day, the same fate would befall Mal and Kheran, once their parents had found suitable candidates within their respective houses.
"Hold the powder." Mal remarked offhandedly, raising up a palm just as Kheran picked up the tin. "What's the use if we're bathing?"
"Fair point. Force of habit, I guess."
"You wanted to see me, Father?"
"Ah, yes, Mal." The smooth voice resounded from the far end of the room. "Come in, please."
The private salon of Shadow Lord Dul Andras was befittingly dark and cavernous, lit only by the small clusters of ethereal orbs floating along the walls, turning everything to silhouettes of violet and red. Rows and rows of scrolls and tomes stretched high up toward the ceiling, and obsidian pedestals between the shelves bore mysterious bottles and glowing gemstones, among other treasures and curios. It was not often that Mal was summoned into his father's most personal quarters.
The Shadow Lord laid supine on the velvet cushion of his chaise, an unfurled scroll with glowing runes floating just in front of his face. The black silk fabric of his robe was draped beneath him, pooling down to the floor on either side. Between his legs stood a mountain of a Minotaur, clad in nothing but tightly-strung waterproofs of coal-colored leather, with his hands down between the Tiefling's legs.
"Boys." The Minotaur turned to give them a curt nod, before returning to the task at hand, and reaching further to produce a puffy rectangle of terry cloth from beneath the chaise.
"Hey, Dad." Kheran waved sheepishly from behind Mal, wearing the exact same attire as his father. "My lord."
"Tell me this, my son." The scroll snapped shut and vanished from sight as Dul cocked his head to look his son in the eyes. "What do you know of the Daughters of Sora Kell?"
"They're three Hags...the ones claiming sovereignty over all the regions east of the Demesne. Calling it 'Droaam', as I recall."
"Well spoken. 'Claiming'." He let out a dry rasp of a laugh. "Like your mother. Yes, they claim to rule much. And today, they added one more claim. At least, according to the pronouncement of Bal Molesh."
Khalorr stepped aside and dropped the soiled diaper into a slotted bin beside them, where a blinding flash of green flame erupted for a brief moment, then disappeared.
"Sora Teraza walked into the chambers of the Council of Four this morning. She told us that the fate of the Venom Lords and that of her mother were inextricably linked, and that both would return to their homes very soon."
"You mean...Ohr Kaluun?"
"Apparently so. Sora Kell has been missing for just over a century now, but allegedly, the Draconic Prophecy states that we all ought to be preparing for a homecoming."
"And you believe her?"
"I am...inclined to do so." Dul extended a hand clutching an empty crystal glass, and a carafe of bloodwine hovered over from the corner of the room to replenish it. "You know oracles. Sora Teraza is a fearsome, powerful seer, more closely descended from a true Fiend than you or I, but her cryptic words could be interpreted any number of ways. Many have claimed to see and comprehend the Prophecy -- and many have been proven wrong."
"What will we do, then?"
"Hmm." He bent up at the waist as Khalorr finished fastening his waterproofs, then plodded over to the corner to fill his own glass. "Well, we will do as we've done for generations: continue mastering our craft, growing our power, and expanding our knowledge. Additionally, the Council of Four has decided to cooperate with the Daughters...for what might, potentially, be a mutual interest. And that is where you come in."
"Oh?" Mal's fingernails nervously plucked at the hem of his tunic. "How so?"
"Each Venom Lord is sending their firstborn to the Great Crag, to assist the Daughters in any way they might require, and as a gesture of good faith."
"I see." Mal looked inquisitively over his shoulder to Kheran, but observed only bewilderment upon the Minotaur's face.
"This is a great honor, Mal." Dul's voice took on a bit more of an edge. "Very few have left the Demesne, and even fewer are ever allowed to return. Your doing so will gain us powerful allies -- for the Demesne as a whole, but more exactly, for our house. If Sora Kell, or her daughters, are to return Ohr Kaluun to our people's hands, then it is your goal to ensure as much of it lands in my hands specifically."
"Understood."
"And Kheran, you're going with him, obviously." The larger Minotaur placed a hand on the back of the chaise and took a long gulp of bloodwine. "While Mal's taking care of us, you're taking care of him, right?"
"Right, Dad." Kheran exclaimed, audibly quaking.
"Good lad."
Rather than put dirty clothes back on, just to walk the halls to the bathing chamber and disrobe again, Mal and Kheran strode confidently through the passageways of Shaarat Kol wearing nothing but their swim diapers. The Goblin servants therein shot scrutinizing looks in their direction, but for Mal's part, he paid them no mind. If this sort of attire was appropriate for a Minotaur in his father's estate, then the Tiefling saw no reason for it to be taboo in the reclaimed fortress of a Kobold.
After retracing their steps from earlier in the day, they came upon the familiar double doors, but heard a murmur of voices from the hallway. Having gone almost an entire day with ash and dust in every pore of his skin, Mal couldn't care less what waited on the other side, pushing both doors open and striding in with princely determination.
"How's that for 'loosening up', eh?" Lexis growled into Des' ear, letting his fangs trace upon the Changeling's lobe. "Bet I can make you squirt just like this, without even touching that pitiful little thing."
Des could only let out a desperate whine as he thrust himself down onto the Shifter's lap, one clawed hand twisting at his nipple while the other slid down to his crotch. From beneath the rippling surface of the water, a pearly jet of fluid broke out and arced through the air, then plunked back down, leaving a faint cloud in the water where it landed. When the sound of a throat clearing echoed throughout the room, the two of them froze in place.
"If you'd rather we use the other facilities, feel free to say so..." Mal began, before ducking with a yelp as a sopping wet diaper was lobbed directly toward his face.