It was a known fact that Blood Elves hated and despised undead of any kind. They offered no quarter, and did not hesitate to extinguish what vile force maintained the husks still roaming the Dead Scar. Unwittingly, however, the hideous creatures played a vital role in concealing a hidden prison along the Scar, just outside Fairbreeze Village, also playing a more vital role in deterring any too curious for their own good. Outside, it appeared to be nothing more than a ruined sanctum, though inside was a testament to Blood Elf finery and luxury. Inside were walls of the finest masonry and artistic talent, tapestries of thick red velvet lined with gold, portraits of the most cunning and courageous figures of the Blood Elf heritage. Elaborate pillars lined the walls, marking every eight-foot section, as well as every corner, fashioned after the great pillars of Silverymoon. On top of the décor and the beauty was the cleanliness of the prison. It was immaculate. To most, it did not make sense to  put such care into the maintenance of a prison, but to Blood Elves, they believed in truly making the prisoners of this secret prison suffer. Na’Ryl, a hunter of repute from the times of the Silithid uprising, once was told by a brash guard, “We want you to suffer, you pathetic nocturnal offshoot! We want you to wish you could die from sickness!”<br/><br/>Na’Ryl had never acknowledged that guard. When he was first brought here, shackled, beaten, bleeding, and above all, shamed to having been caught, he immediately began to formulate plans for escape. He was, after all, a veteran, several thousand years old. He would have been an intriguing, or amusing sight, braiding his thick, midnight blue mane while he contemplated, his pinkish tan skin gleaming in the candle and torch light as his deft fingers worked almost imperceptibly in a blur as they danced and wove through his silky strands. He wasn’t the tallest or the most robust elf, standing just at six feet, weighing about a hundred and fifty-six, but he was fast, which was why, when General Rajaxx and his Qiraji army assaulted the Staghelms, Na’Ryl was one of few to survive.<br/><br/>It seemed he was destined for survival, for he had been caught in a rescue effort into this very prison. He had succeeded, for the most part, several of the prisoners escaping. He did not, though. He didn’t know how long they’d been captives, and could only imagine how good it felt to them to be free. So, as they were relentlessly pursued, he used himself to bait several of the Blood Elf hunters and assassins after him. Now, he was in his cell, clean, perfectly polished steel, gleaming and even reflecting him in the bars. That same guard had told him, “We don’t polish the bars so you can look at that pretty face of yours, we do it so you can watch yourself die!” He’d then unceremoniously given him a sharp boot to the rear, locking the door behind Na’Ryl.<br/><br/>In the beginning, Na’Ryl hated this cell, he loathed it. Over time though, he grew comfortable in his cell, not because of any acceptance, but because of what was included with his cell and his role as prisoner, which was one of the most alluring and provocative wardens he’d ever encountered. A warden whom was currently straddling the Night Elf in snug, black leather pants, the material, and her sensual curves catching on his simple loose-leather pants as he sat, legs outstretched, hands bound, loosely, to his cell bars. She was his raven-haired mistress, though she’d dyed that luxurious mane red, fiery red, taunting him, teasing him by brushing her lips up and down his face as she ground her thighs and chest agonizingly against his, clad in a simple fabric tunic, her bosom hidden perfect by a loose-fit blouse, gold trim causing the candle and torch light to dance provocatively along her body. His actions elicited a melodic giggle from the wicked elf, and he realized just how far in their relationship they’d come. For as she stuck out her tongue in his face, almost mockingly, he’d lunge his head forward, catching that tongue with his teeth, and suck it into his mouth in an effort to get a good taste of her.<br/><br/>It was all a game, a game she invented, and a game they both loved. She would mock-bind him, and see just how long he could resist having his way with her. More meaningful was the fact that she always left the cell door open wide, his weapons just outside. He didn’t care. He was far too busy savoring the warm sweetness of her saliva coating his tongue. Finally, he had to breathe.<br/><br/>“Don’t stop, Aesa. Don’t ever stop!”<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>