Bred by the Medusa (Reluctant Breeding Tentacle Monster Sex)

Bred by the Medusa (Reluctant Breeding Tentacle Monster Sex)
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The Church of Jesus Christ. More info in the FAQ. Instinct took over. Quick as a snake, Yvraine leaned out of the path of a volley of poison-tipped needles and cartwheeled one-handed over a searing dark lance beam.

Eyes darting, she forced her thoughts into focus, and braved a glance past the beast at her attackers. It did not look good. Her assailants were Kabalite Trueborn , by their insignia, and they had whole shrines of Incubi with them. Those Klaive-wielding artisans of murder preferred not to fight in the arena, seeing it as a distasteful display that could only expose their strengths and weaknesses in the long term.

Tonight, they were evidently prepared to make an exception.

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Yvraine was slowly becoming aware of the extreme danger she was in. Not only had she effectively slain hundreds of the Dark City's finest, she had become possessed by an eldritch force, and judging by the shuddering sands beneath her feet, shaken the entire district to its foundations. The Incubi would be the least of her worries when the Haemonculi moved in. No doubt they planned to dissect her in agonising, drawn-out detail.

For a while, neither side seemed to be able to gain the upper hand. The sculpted, dense metallo-fibres of the Incubi's armour protected them from the slashing blades of all but the nimblest Hekatarii , and the Incubi landed few blows in return, for the Bloodbrides moved with preternatural speed.

Then each shrine's Klaivex leader triggered his Bloodstone. Waves of pain wracked the Bloodbrides, sending them staggering backwards. The Incubi were close enough to capitalise, their movements so smooth it was obvious that they had practiced this manoeuvre a thousand times. A score of Bloodbrides died in just a few Terran seconds.

With the Trueborn moving in to take their choice of kills, the stalemate became a slaughter. Yvraine felt an intense pressure build up in her head, every fresh death intensifying the feeling. The incredible sensations swelling in her soul threatened to blind her, deafen her, or stun her into a coma. There was so much death, so many souls cut from their bodies, that she could not bear it.

The ground itself swelled with power.

Yvraine spat out six words that had arrived unbidden to her lips. The lights of the arena, almost painfully bright so the spectators could see every nuance of the fights, dimmed to low twilight. The bright designs of the Wyches' ritual outfits were leached of all colour. Even the splashes of blood that seemed to arc in slow motion through the air were rendered near-black by the sudden illusion of monochrome.

Yvraine felt a great gale of pent-up energy escape her, a palpable force that left her feeling as clear-minded and eager as a youth at a rite of passage. The gladiatrix vaulted from the cover of the Tyrannofex corpse, snatching up her Huskblade from its resting place on the sands. The sword, like Yvraine herself, had been transformed.

The elegant blade resonated at her touch, and as she held it aloft in her newly-gauntleted hand, it was radiant with power. She whipped her head around to find the best route out, and saw a scene from a disturbing dream. The corpses of several dozen Dark Eldar fanned out from her position, many of her Bloodbrides lying amongst scatterings of Incubi and Trueborn that had fallen dead without a single obvious wound.

Yvraine felt her throat tighten at the sight, her eyes hurting with the intensity of the stark spectacle around her. The fairings and balustrades of the arena were still embattled, knots of Tyranids hacking and slicing their way into the city beyond. Yvraine shouted a quick order to her surviving Bloodbrides and ran towards the thinnest area of the crowd, Huskblade glowing in her left hand as she retrieved her Bladefan with her right. Slashing, jumping, and darting left and right, Yvraine -- and the two dozen Bloodbrides still by her side -- broke as fast as they could for the edge of the arena.

A wall of Kabalites barred her path, but as a great shout of anger forced itself from her lips, many of them were ripped from their feet as if by invisible ghosts. It was too much for their comrades. The morbid display had seemed too close to the psychic arts, strictly forbidden in Commorragh due to the likelihood of drawing the gaze of Slaanesh and hence dooming the entire city to a catastrophic Dysjunction. Few amongst them realised that dire event was already unfolding, a full-blown daemonic invasion erupting beneath their feet.

As Yvraine ran, a Hellion in the gang colours of the Ghyrebats swooped in, desperate to make a name for himself by capturing or killing the focal point of the carnage.

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The young warrior fell from his Skyboard, which came to a smooth halt as its rider fell apart -- not into arid dust, as was usual for the Huskblade's touch, but in a cascade of tiny, glowing embers. Somehow, Yvraine heard the howl of the Hellion's soul as it departed its body.

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Although it dwindled, the scream did not recede altogether. The soul had not been drained, nor stolen away by the sucking pull of She Who Thirsts as with all other Dark Eldar. In an unlikely moment of contrition, Yvraine felt empathy with that dying soul.

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A heartbeat later, a new voice was in her head, mewling with fear. Distracted as she was, only the sound of armoured footsteps on the sand saved Yvraine from a swift decapitation. She leaned back, an Incubus' Klaive whistling less than a finger's breadth from her nose as another of the weapons came in low.

With her own blade, she turned the second Klaive aside and upwards, ensuring it crashed into the first hard enough to buy her some space. She levelled a solid kick to the midriff of one of the assailants and a hard elbow to the other, giving her time to recover. Yvraine snarled as she saw that six more Incubi were circling around her, and that her Bloodbrides were similarly beset. The mercenary killers stepped in close, blades raised in ritualistic battle stances. They would attack as one, a pack of predators rather than a loose gathering of competitors like the Wych Cults.

Against such disciplined strength, even a Succubus would find her life expectancy measured in Terran seconds. Yvraine raised her aberrant new Huskblade into a guard stance, and curled a finger to beckon them to their deaths -- or perhaps to hers. Horned helms bounced away as another was halved at the waist.

She swung onto the delicate machine as if born to it; though she had never so much as touched a Skyboard, she was suddenly familiar with every nuance. Triggering its splinter pod, she shot down a fifth Incubus just as the sixth was cut in half from neck to groin by the crimson fighter. The last two shrine-warriors backed away and ran. Disquieted and angry, Yvraine leapt from the skyboard and pointed her blade towards the newcomer as his own fighters rallied to him.

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He was armed and armoured in the style of Bel-Anshoc, a genius artisan whose style Yvraine recognised from sculptures and paintings of the Eldar's long-lost past. More than that, his guard stance was familiar. She had witnessed several of his looping blows in the fight, the very same moves she had used to great effect since her days as an Aspect Warrior. This mysterious swordsman was clearly not her enemy. The newcomer saluted, offering his sword as a group of Incubi hurried to stand at his side. The mercenaries too made the sign of the proffered blade, their swords level with the horned helms of their battle armour.

She shook her head dismissively, striding towards the grand arena's exit; if they were not here to kill her, at least they would not slow her down.