To Live And To Uplift As A Drow.
 
 
Let me tell you a tale.
 
 
Once upon a time, there was this boy who grew up in this rather disadvantaged home. It wasn’t poor as we would understand it, but both parents worked and barely made ends meet. Maybe it was the alcohol that they each hid away from the other, and maybe it was a lack of forethought. The point is that times were always hard and so they fought.
 
 
The boy didn’t really enjoy being in this sort of environment and so sought ways to stay away from home. Maybe he’d stay at school as long as he could. Maybe he’d visit his friends as often as he could. It didn’t matter what it was, but he tried many things until he found a true source of escapism. And, as it turned out, it was chemistry.
 
 
His school called it a club, but the boy called it salvation. He threw himself into it because the alternative was going home.
 
 
Eventually, he would make good enough impressions and good enough grades that he sought a career in metallurgy. Not quite the jump from his past studies, but it was the only program that would take someone poor like him in his town and he NEEDED to not be around his family. As it turned out, he was quite good at that too and so, eventually, got a high degree in it and joined the workforce as a trained professional.
 
 
Things were looking good for him and, being free of his family, he was high on life. He met the love of his life and ended up repeating the same sad story his parents.
 
 
Maybe it was that, given his upbringing, he was attracted to the kind of partner that wasn’t good for him, but to his private shame his wife would eventually come to be an abusive one. It was a problem compounded by the generation of kids and so, eventually, in his adult years, he returned to a spot he had long left behind in his childhood. One where he didn’t want to be around his family.
 
 
He threw himself into his career with the gusto the desperate had and sought to rarely be home. It was a relief valve that he was familiar with but, unlike his younger years, it only made things worse. His children, who he often didn’t see, didn’t really know him or, for that matter, respect him. How could they when all he did was be at work?
 
 
But the more problems he had, and boy did they collect, the more and more he sought an escape.
 
 
Metallurgy isn’t hard work, not really. If you know the subject, and have the years of experience, a man can figuratively swim with metal like a fish swam in the sea. But the man who had once been a boy stopped coming up for air at one point. And escape or not, the body needs more things than just work. It needs time to distress, time to think and time to simply not be doing things.
 
 
The man who had once been a boy denied himself all these things until, one day, he simply dropped.
 
 
Death from overworking, they pronounced his death when, really, all he’d ever been doing was running away.
 
 
And for his sins, death wasn’t the end of his troubles.
 
 
For his cowardice, he was then reborn as a Drow elf.
 
 
My old life started to fade away, to the point I forgot the faces of my personal demons, of the families I had continuously ran away from, but time dulled all feelings and brought new perspectives to past events.
 
 
And today? Today I needed a stone.
 
 
Living underground was quite the thing, though after 26 years of doing it, it had lost its luster and was, quite simply, a “normal” thing to me. To whatever degree something could be “normal” to me. Despite the Drow being Elves that lived underground they were still Elves and that meant that, by their standards, I was still something of a teenager. Who had the poor habit of wondering where they shouldn’t.
 
 
But as a man? I was being outright stupid.
 
 
There is no such thing as Dark Vision. Some creatures could “see” simply by using sound, but even the most adapted to the dark who used their eyes needed something to make contact with their retinas. Be it very faint light, or even heat as Drow could see into the infrared.
 
 
The problem was that the tunnels underground got very cold and so it was that a lot of the time the only light source anyone had was their own body heat. Anyone traveling through the myriad of ways in the underground had to provide their own torch, one way or another.
 
 
I wasn’t going too far from the home tunnels of my gang, but I was far enough that my breath would have come out as a mist if I hadn’t wrapped up my face. Not that I had wrapped up my face because of my cold, but because there were many things that could drop the temperature in the tunnels below freezing. And one of them absolutely loved Co2.
 
 
Not that the Drow knew what carbon dioxide was, but there was a reason why everyone didn’t just keel over whenever some overworlder brought lid a fire underground. And that was because various types of underground creatures and mushrooms, of which there were literal groves of, were voracious devourers of the carbon in the air. And sometimes, of those that produced it.
 
 
It was an easy safety measure to take, but I was pretty sure that it said something when deliciously pure and clean air was a source of danger.
 
 
So what I was doing was dangerous and stupid. Why do it then?
 
 
And the answer was that I needed to make something useless.
 
 
It was cliche to say it, but Drow society was like an iceberg. The most visible parts of it were the most awe-inspiring and terror-inducing parts, but they were just that. The most visible parts.
 
 
A huge city in a huge underground cavern that still manages to not collapse on itself. A caste of priestess that worship a blatantly demonic god. Magic being used all around in great and vain displays all to the beat of cutthroat nobility who made the whole wheel move. That is what anyone who visited the City of my people saw. But, you see, the only people who lived in the city, be they slaves or nobles, were those who were in some way actually useful.
 
 
Any member of my family, my gang because “clans” were something only “proper” Drow families had, would have traded their left breasts to be a beggar in the city.
 
 
Unfortunately, we were but Drow living in the outskirts.
 
 
That meant we had no cavern to call home, just an endless expanse of tunnels. Which we had to constantly move in and out of just to keep living. That meant the routes themselves were our home and, more often than not, we had to share them with many other gangs. You probably have not been poor in the way that a truly poor Drow is poor. You can’t be. Even a slave holds value, but an outskirt Elf? They are an annoyance at best. And a ready victim at worst. Because, yes, killing other Drows is one of the cultural pastimes.
 
 
Yet I couldn’t quite call myself truly unfortunate. Because my family, my gang, was on the rise. As much as Drow on the outskirts could be said to be.
 
 
So why was I making something useless?
 
 
Because my family was worse than either of my past ones had been in my first life.
 
 
The thing about Drow is that they had the fertility of human beings. So, by Elf standards, we were practically explosive breeders. I grew up with many cousins and perhaps even half-siblings. Yet even that was a bit imprecise as all Elves lived for a long time. I grew up with people to whom I was an uncle, a great uncle or a great-great uncle as my mother was the leader of the gang. Which meant she’d be around for a while.
 
 
I was indeed breastfed, but only because babies that weren’t died. And I, despite being male, was another asset. And a growing gang needed many assets. To my playmates, this was natural, but to me this had been strange at first. And then it had been disturbing.
 
 
Having a past life behind me didn’t allow me to behave like a normal babe and then growing kid. I was taciturn and quieter than a growing boy should have been. I was less curious and less willing to form bonds with others. I would have been a red flag for any sane household. But, you see, that didn’t matter. This was normal for male Drow. Because everyone taught them from day one what their true worth was.
 
 
The way girls and males were treated? It was not equal and no one ever made any bones about it. Girls were bigger and stronger than males. Women were more sensitive to magic and matured more quickly. A single woman could, with time, produce her own gang while a male could only, only, ever join another’s.
 
 
That meant that my male cousins, the little boys I grew up with, couldn’t help but be spineless manlets who were more likely than not to snitch on me. And then, there were my female cousins.
 
 
“You saw that? She wouldn’t even look me in the eye,” the voice of one Jarna’t reached me as I walked around, causing me to hide.
 
 
It was almost never lethal to meet another member of your family alone out in the tunnels, but I was deeply disturbed by her at that moment. And Jarna’t, believe it or not, was my best friend.
 
 
You have to understand that I am not trying to put airs on by declaring a close relationship with a female. I grew up with Jarna’t and, when she was called to put on the gang rags and fight for our tunnels, she chose me as, essentially, her plus one.
 
 
Sometimes, if they didn’t have anything better to do, males were thrown into the heat of things and more often than not end up injured or dying. Otherwise, they were always supporting the women by collecting things, carrying things and being the ones to organize the homes. But a young male who hadn’t proved himself useful might as well just be another hand swinging a stick or a rock at another Elf.
 
 
I walked with my mother’s forces in the last raid, not on the front line, but behind Jarna’t. I carried her things. Her ammunition, our meager property and clothing and, eventually, her loot. Because the winner of a fight got to loot. And we won.
 
 
Despite the blood, despite the screams, I stood behind her back as we drove another gang out of their home. The girl who I had grown up with, the girl who had promised that she wouldn’t leave me behind, that she could trust me, stood victorious as we decided what to do with our prisoners.
 
 
Because, yes, killing other Drow was a cultural pastime.
 
 
But rape was the cultural fetish. One shared by noble and pauper alike.
 
 
A girl of our age had an eye so swollen that it might as well have been shut.
 
 
She had been knocked out and was slowly coming to as my cousin loomed over her.
 
 
“Here, take this,” she told me as she took her clothes off and threw them to me, trusting that I wouldn’t let them get dirty on the ground.
 
 
And then, as all my aunts and older cousins watched with amused eyes, my best friend ripped the clothing off the girl as she set their crotches together.
 
 
“Urgh,” the girl blinked her eyes as my cousin grabbed her leg and spread it wide as she lower her pussy to hers.
 
 
And then, before she could truly understand what was happening to her, Jarna’t started rubbing them together.
 
 
“A fight and a show!” a blood-covered aunt whooped as she stopped looting to see my cousin lose her virginity to her victim.
 
 
“Fuck that bitch!” a girl our age called, one of the tentative friends my cousin had made.
 
 
“Show her who’s her mommy!” another cheered and only made Jarna’t hump her victim that much more.
 
 
My mother didn’t say anything of course, but she was watching.
 
 
And she was approving.
 
 
‘For the, hmm, gang!” Jarna’t moaned as she rose to a pitch and then shuttered as she orgasmed with the girl.
 
 
I had no doubt her poor victim would have done the same thing if the tables were turned, she had been a combatant in the raid, but the catatonic way she looked up, as if she couldn’t believe what was happening to her, was one I don’t think I would easily forget.
 
 
Nor was the euphoria on my cousin’s face, as the sexual release was accompanied by wide cheers and hot-blooded baying from the rest of the gang.
 
 
My cousin wouldn’t do anything to me if she found me here. But that was it, I couldn’t bear to face her just yet. Just like I had done in my other life, I was trying to run away.
 
 
Though, that was the difference I suppose.
 
 
No matter how much I wanted to, I really couldn’t run away from my new family. I either was my rapist best friend’s carrier, or my use would be speculatory. And I did not want to be a fresh body in the skirmish line.
 
 
But more then that…I connected more to my cousin then I ever did to my own mother in my old life. I connected more with my spineless male cousins than I ever did with any member of my family in either side of my old one.
 
 
But given the chance, my natural inclination was to run away so I breathed in relief when my cousin and the girls she had started to collect around her passed by without noticing me. And so, I carried on through the tunnels.
 
 
I needed a stone, yes, but not just any stone. Being that I was in a tunnel, I was surrounded by the stuff. But I didn’t have any tools to really work it and I was a male besides; I could break off a piece from one of the many walls, at least not to the shape and size I needed, and those freely available were far too touch for me to work with any certainty.
 
 
Because I wasn’t sure about what I was doing.
 
 
In the end, I found a rock half the side of my head. It wasn’t readily porous, it was somewhat lighter then the other rocks like it that I had tried, and, upon striking it from an angle, readily flaked off.
 
 
It wasn’t perfect, it was actually a bit too heavy, but I decided that it was as close to it that I would get to.
 
 
And so, absconding off to a hidden cavern in the tunnel, I took a heavier but smaller rock in hand and sat down.
 
 
And then…I just started to chip away at the bigger one.
 
 
I used chemistry to escape from my parental family and metallurgy to escape from my wedded life, but I had always found a certain fascination with working with my hands. Stone knapping wasn’t a thing that I tried for very long, but it WAS a thing I tried.
 
 
And that memory had recently come to mind even when the face of my old mother no longer did.
 
 
I don’t know for how long I worked, but I steadily made loud clicks in that hidden enclosure for hours as I reduced the stone I had found more and more. It was limestone, I think, but at the time I had no way of making sure. Either way, I broke the rock piece by piece until it was a leaf about twice as big as my hand.
 
 
By the time I had made it a flat leaf, the cold had started to truly seep in.
 
 
Either I was closer to a grove of Blind Mushrooms than I had any right to be, or it was getting closer to evening than I thought. Either way, I would have to hurry up.
 
 
By the time I was losing feeling in my fingers and my toes started going numb, I had reached a point that I wasn’t utterly ashamed of, so I started traveling towards my home.
 
 
Clean water was a bit hard to come by sometimes, but if your ears were sharp, you could find little spots where little streams would fall through cracks in the stone and seep underground. I didn’t immediately enter my home tunnel, but the area around me was still warm enough that I felt safe in wetting my flat leaf-shaped stone.
 
 
It allowed me to grind it upon the smooth stone around the water spout, making the sharp edge along my stone be consistent throughout it.
 
 
But night waits for no one and its chilling touch started brushing against me soon enough.
 
 
It still wasn’t perfect, but it was as perfect as I was going to get it I suppose. And I still needed to do many things. All to make something that was almost certainly useless.
 
 
Drow gangs are funny things, you know, because, yes, they work like what you think of as a “gang”, but a better term for them would be “clan” as they are composed of blood relations for the most part. Again, a “Clan” was something a well-to-do family that lived in a city had, not a pauper family out on the outskirts. So my gang was in a very literal sense also my family.
 
 
They were, and have no doubt about this, worse than my two original families were. They had the same dramas and problems that my old ones had while adding a whole lot more. Yet for all that, I found myself drawn to them in a way that I didn’t my old.
 
 
With no way to escape, with no way to run, I had to learn to deal with them and come to terms with it all. With no way to shut them out, he couldn’t but be intimately aware of their cruelties and pettiness. But also? Of their suffering and plight. Not even the worst among them wasn’t pitiable, I suppose, because what were we if not the waste of the drow?
 
 
My favorite cousin was a budding rapist, yet I could not bring myself to not like her. My male cousins were pathetic, but they held on to every hope and good news like the young men they were. The elders of my family were all flint-gazed women who still clothed and fed us and for no other reason that we were part of the gang.
 
 
Part of the family.
 
 
There is term is a term for the acclimation I was going through. Stockholm syndrome, I think? But I am more…content with these people that call me “cousin” and “nephew” than I ever was with those that called me “son”, “husband” and “daddy” in my old life. I could not hate my new family.
 
 
Not when I could put my self in their shoes. Not when they hurt the same way I did. Perhaps that was the lesson? “Family is suffering and that’s ok?”
 
 
I don’t know, but by the same token, I didn’t want to repeat who I was in my first life. That life came to no good end.
 
 
I found one of the spots the gang trappers like to use, just outside out of tunnels. Many animals and creatures called the underground their home, and the humble cave rat was practically a keystone species. Practically everything ate them, and we outskirt Drow were no different.
 
 
There was a very furry rat trying to escape from one of the rope traps.
 
 
“Sorry about this buddy,” I told the rodent, who trashed even more as it saw me near it. The standard practice was to beat it to death with a stick when you were going to harvest it, but I only had a sharp leaf shaped stone blade in my hands.
 
 
A few stabs at its neck and its trashing suddenly turned cathartic.
 
 
I started cutting then.
 
 
Stealing from the trapper was serious business, but I could hopefully avoid punishment by doing this right. Even as the rat bled into the ground, I ran my stone blade through it’s fur, caking my fingers in blood but slowly pulling its skin off its frame. The paw fur I didn’t take, but I didn’t butcher its pelt too badly as the rat was left with only its musculature.
 
 
And here was what I wanted.
 
 
I carefully peeled as much of it’s ligaments and tendons as I could, cutting muscle only when I couldn’t avoid it. I went for the big ones first, like the hamstrings, but I harvested what connective tissue I hadn’t messed up. Thankfully, by the end, I had a small handful of it.
 
 
I then lifted the rope trap, rat and all, and tied it around its fur. I put it in a hard-to-reach place and, well, the trapper was supposed to check on her traps before nightfall. If she did her job, she’d find her catch, minus it’s ligaments and tendons.
 
 
If she didn’t, I would blame a wild animal for snatching it during the night.
 
 
Because nightfall was coming fast by that point. I could feel the chill in my bones.
 
 
Because that was what night was: a time when our wondrous city sucked ALL the heat out of the underground for miles and used it for their nefarious purposes. The temperature lowered enough to freeze water but also? Enough to be blind.
 
 
With little hate radiating out of anything, the vaunted dark vision of the Drow became a bit useless. It was truly dark for us.
 
 
Nightfall.
 
 
But I had done what I had come out to do. Well, hopefully anyway.
 
 
Now I just needed one more thing.
 
 
I cleaned the rat ligaments and tendons on my clothes as much as I could before popping them into my mouth. They tasted like copper and had a gamey aftertaste but I wasn’t eating them. I was just chewing them.
 
 
The entrance to my home was blocked by a large number of fur curtains, but they were overseen by hidden watchwomen. Had I not been who I was I would have been killed before I could even see it. As it was, seeing movement from my peripheral vision raised the hackles of my neck.
 
 
But I would lie if I said that I didn’t sigh with relief upon entering my home.
 
 
For outskirt Drow, home was a changing thing. We needed to move from tunnel to tunnel as we depleted game, water and edible mushrooms this far out from our city. Ideally, we would pilfer all our needs from raids on other gangs or, some of us dared dream, on the merchants arriving into the city from the well known routes. But as it was, the woman who organized immigration throughout our territory and selected which tunnels we would set in was probably third in power and responsibility in our gang.
 
 
Because, unlike the outside, it was warm here.
 
 
Dozens of bodies walked, talked, played, fought and just plainly lived about. All the ways to these few tunnels had been sealed like where I had come from and were tightly guarded by a procession of women through the night. With these many drows living together, a pleasant amount of heat could be formed. Furs, fungus fiber tapestries and the odd fabrics that had made their way from the city to them were applied to many different caverns and so created many air bubbles.
 
 
This way, neither the city nor Mushroom Grove could steal all the heat from their home.
 
 
I happily took my many layers of clothing off and set them over my shoulder as I stripped down to a single tunic.
 
 
I would have gone with only a loincloth like the females would, but the elders were very strict on that kind of thing for men; They did not want any of our girls to be unfairly tempted.
 
 
And maybe you’ll laugh at that, but I had seen boys get their clothes stolen and made to go back to their sleeping posts to get more as a prank. And that was how a lot of them lost their purities. “Unfair temptation” indeed.
 
 
I was still chewing on my mouthful of tendons and ligaments, trying not to throw up as I reached the sleeping spot that I shared with my cousins. It wouldn’t be long before Jarna’t and some of the other girls moved on, leaving us behind as they became warriors of the gang. That meant more food, lodgings with fewer roommates, and a more secure way to store their things.
 
 
But for now? I could reach into her bag and pull out a stick of fungus wood.
 
 
Plants didn’t grow underground for the most part, and wood from overground was an expensive luxury that was hard to transport into their city. So it was that for those like me, the only alternative that we really had was to find the right kind of mushroom cut it up so that it would dry up over a few weeks.
 
 
Moisture was something any fungus liked to gobble up, so there were spots between groves where we could lay dead pieces of fungus and let them suck all the water in them through the air. We just had to be careful that they didn’t get their roots into them too. The result was, depending on the fungus, fibrous pieces of matter that could be carved, cut down or used to build things.
 
 
 
 
 
 
And Jarna’t? She a long piece of hard fungus wood. It was a club we had looted on the raid but was not, thankfully, the trophy she had taken from her victim. I don’t think she’d ever forgive me if I took that.
 
 
But this? Well, I was still her best friend, and that had to count for something. But I NEEDED the stick.
 
 
Eyes watched me pilfer the stick and my male cousins watched me leave our sleeping spot. They would run straight to Jarna’t and tell her everything, I knew, but still I carried on as I finally had everything that I needed to work.
 
 
I found a quiet hole in the wall, one that none of my cousins would look into, and finally spat the rat connective tissue out.
 
 
It was soft by this point in time. Soft and pliable and full of my saliva as I spat in the ground, trying to get the taste out of my mouth. I wanted to get a drink of water but more then that, I wanted to finish my useless task.
 
 
I made grooves at one end of the fungus wood. I cut deep with my stone blade, and set made depressions that would not bend. I looked at my stone blade and, just in case, decided to widen the grooves I had made at the start of it.
 
 
And then, I wedged it into a single groove that split the end of the fungus stick.
 
 
Wood would have been ideal here, but I didn’t have access to any. No, what I had access to was connective tissue and clothing.
 
 
So taking said collective tissue, which I had labored to make as soft as I could, I started tying the stone blade the ligaments. I used the tendons to loop into the grooves in the side of the stick, and tied them up when they came to their end. I used every single one that I had and pulled it tight against the stone and the fungus wood.
 
 
And then, when I had ran out of connective tissue, I used the stone blade to rip parts of my outgoing tunic to make large strips of clothing.
 
 
I wouldn’t be able to easily get another, I knew, but we weren’t moving out of this area any time soon yet and that made the risk worth it.
 
 
I tied long strips around the shaft of the wood where the stone blade was wedged into the wood. I secured it many times with many knots until I was sure that the split end would not easily separate.
 
 
All I had to do was let the tendons and ligaments dry and they would tighten some more all on their own. This SHOULD provide a secure fit but without glue, I couldn’t be one hundred percent sure.
 
 
I still had some leftover strips after that. I had been overzealous in collecting them as a resource. So I used them all to wrap at the other end of the stick, making a more comfortable handle.
 
 
I looked at my creation, at the stone knife at the end of this club-length stick and…kind of palmed my hand.
 
 
It was not long enough to be a spear. And it was not short enough to be a knife. But it had a pointy end, and stone got sharp, so that was alright, right?
 
 
Right?
 
 
It was useless.
 
 
But then, I had known it would be. Even if I had made a stone knife or an actual stone spear, what would this even do?
 
 
The Drow had steel foundries and got trade from all over the underground. They had mages, sorcerors and priestesses whose goddesses answered when they prayed. The least member of the noble houses had enchanted weapons and armor and, in the city, there was no shortage of clever contraptions. The city was never short of tools of death. Even slaves could, and were, outfitted like an overworlder’s dream levy.
 
 
Sometimes, very rarely, very luckily, such things were reached them. Sometimes, they would scavenge a noble battlefield and find things that made would make a gang reign over its neighbors.
 
 
Because that is what the gangs were: scavengers. And what they truly aspired to be was bandits.
 
 
That is why, despite it being useless, I had gone through all the trouble to make this thing.
 
 
Because I had overheard my aunt talk about this that morning. She was complaining that she couldn’t equip all her girls.
 
 
My mother had set her to skirmishing against a smaller gang. Not normally a hard task, but the gang had been growing so much that our success was outstripping our ability to arm ourselves. If a male died in one of these, well, that was just life, but every single female warrior dead was a blow to the gang. She was an investment that took time and resources to recoup.
 
 
But that was just what Aunt Kan’a was going to have to face.
 
 
 I didn’t know her very well. My impression of her was that she was a humorless woman with an authoritative bent. She would have been a miserable doughy old woman had she been a human. But as it was? She was a dark-skinned elf of undeterminable age with sharp features and a perpetual frown in her face. She was objectively pretty, but it was hard to enjoy the view when staring too long could be seen as a sign of disrespect.
 
 
I truthfully couldn’t say that I liked her. Nor did I have much reason to do anything for her.
 
 
But she had been fettered enough that she complained about her task loud enough for me to hear it. Which meant that she thought that she was in deep shit.
 
 
That she was in trouble.
 
 
That she was….over her head.
 
 
They were scavengers and so used up every single thing that they could. So if his aunt was complaining about not having stuff? It really did mean she had jack shit.
 
 
Yet was a goddamned stone knife-club any better?
 
 
I didn’t know.
 
 
The only thing was, my heart was full to overbursting with the need to do SOMETHING.
 
 
I might have pissed off a few people by doing this, not least my cousin who was finding the joys of Drow fetishes, but it didn’t matter to me. The best thing for a Drow male to do was whatever he had been told to. It was the safest too. Males who made waves never did it for a good reason.
 
 
But still, primitive weapon in hand, I went to see my aunt.
 
 
Aunt Kan’a was in a little cavern separated from the rest of the home tunnels by a curtain of furs and blankets. This was what a “room” was to the gang, and only women of a certain position got to enjoy one all on their lonesome.
 
 
As a male, you really didn’t want to call attention to yourself though, obviously, even these women had children so it couldn’t be all that bad, right?
 
 
They had to interact with the “gentler” gender of the Drow species at some point, right?
 
 
This couldn’t be a mistake on my part.
 
 
Because if it was? Well, if it was…then what?
 
 
I…I didn’t want to keep running.
 
 
I was so, so tired of running.
 
 
I wanted to do something, anything, without shutting myself out.
 
 
I swallowed my throat and called out, “Aunt Kan’a?”
 
 
It was only a few moments before a voice called back, “Just get in here.”
 
 
Oh good, she was home. I parted the curtain and came into a room practically blinding with the heat radiating off the walls.
 
 
Aunt Kan’a was a drow dark skinned drow of about 5 feet and 9 inches, two more then I was. She had broad defined shoulders that didn’t look manly, not when she had a rack to match hanging of her chest. She had a length of clothing binding her tits together, but other then that? She had a loincloth on.
 
 
She was sitting down, going over papers atop a table her ass pressing against the ground.
 
 
She was old, ancient even by human standards, but she did not like one but of it as she faced me. Except…the room. It smelled of her.
 
 
It was a musk that was soil-y, somehow implying age. No elf sweated much or was very smelling, but we outskirt drows lived in confined spaces for much of our lifes. We were hygienic and took what baths we could, but we lived close together and our homes were hot-spaced.
 
 
Aunt Kan’a smelled ancient. Yet her eyes, the swell of her hips and the shape of her big boobs gave that a decidedly sexual edge.
 
 
Ancient? Yes. But fertile.
 
 
“One of Ariet’s, right?” Kan’a guessed and I weakly nodded, “I won’t waste both our times by asking your name, so I hope you have a good reason to bother me.”
 
 
“And before you say anything,” the old elf shushed me up before I could even talk, “I am not in the mood to resolve whatever male quarrel you might have. So I hope, for your sake, that you are here with a message.”
 
 
“Otherwise, you best turn around,” she made a circle with her finger, “And get out of my sight.”
 
 
I probably should have done as she said and taken the opportunity she had given me. As a male, the ability that she had to make my life a living hell could not be understated. Aunt or not, the pecking order was enforced. Yet if I had, all that I had done would have been for nothing.
 
 
Better that I finished this and got punished for it.
 
 
So instead of answering I pulled up the knife-club that I had in my hand and presented it to her.
 
 
Aunt Kan’a looked at the thing, her eyebrows furrowing as she inspected it.
 
 
“Where did you find this thing?” she asked me as she reached out and took a hold of it.
 
 
“I overheard you say you didn’t have enough to arm our sisters,” I replied even as she inspected the stone blade. Her forefinger pressed against the edge of it, but not enough to draw blood. She pushed against the leaf-shaped blade and found it secured in its place. She grabbed a hold of the handle and gave it a few swings.
 
 
It was crap and that didn’t need to be said. It was a stone weapon when the worst of their weapons was slightly rusted iron, “And that mom was pressuring you to go on a raid regardless. I guess, I felt like I had to get that for you.”
 
 
Aunt Kan’a looked between the improperly long stone weapon instrument and me before she sighed.
 
 
Then she put the weapon down.
 
 
And reached for my tunic.
 
 
“M-ma’am?” I asked as I took a step back, but her hand was on my shoulder, grounding me on the spot.
 
 
“It’s trash,” my aunt confirmed as her hands fished around my crotch and found my cock, “But something is better than nothing.”
 
 
“And it would be bad form to not reward one of my males,” she grunted as she pulled my cock out of my tunic and ran her hands through it.
 
 
“O-one of your males?” I gasped as her thumb and forefinger found my glans and squeezed the neck behind it.
 
 
“A good little male that doesn’t need to be ordered to be useful? Yes, you’ll certainly make a fine addition to my band,” the authoritative woman nodded as if it were already a done thing,
 
 
“I-I am already Jarne’t’s carrier!” I moaned as my cock flushed with blood and started extending.
 
 
“The eager little shit?” Kan’a asked, stopping her fellation for a moment as she thought about it, “Did you steal this from her?”
 
 
Her voice was threatening and accusative, but there was a vindictive smile on her face.
 
 
“No!” I gasped as her grip got tighter and my cock extended to its full length.
 
 
“Oh, you’ll certainly get punished for this,” she laughed as her hand went down my cock before she stopped for a moment to stare at it, “Uh, but with a cock this big, I suppose not for too long.”
 
 
“Ah, whatever,” she shrugged as she started giving me broad strokes the smashed her palm into the base of my cock and almost pulled her hand off past the edge of my mushroom head, “Your mine now.”
 
 
My toes were curling and and her pumps were getting faster. My breath was hitched and my fists were clenching.
 
 
The pressure in my crotch build up to a crecent and moaned outloud as my seed splurted out into the ground.
 
 
“That’s it,” Aunt Kan’a encouraged me, “This is what happens when you know your please and make those above you happy.”
 
 
“This is what happens when you make me happy,” the old drow smiled in a very satisfied way as my orgasm ended.
 
 
My seed had dirtied her floor and her hand was glazed completely. She was already making to grab a piece of cloth to clean herself off even as I felt a bit woosy.
 
 
It was my first sexual experience in this life. It had happened with one my old aunts.
 
 
An aunt who was taken it for granted that I would work for her now.
 
 
“If you find anymore of this, bring them to me,” she ordered as she cleaned her hand.
 
 
“Oh, I didn’t find it,” I shook my head to clear away the tiredness that descended upon me.
 
 
‘Yes, yes, you stole it,” my aunt said with what she thought was great patience.
 
 
‘I made it,” I clarified and my aunt stopped.
 
 
“You…made this?” she asked pointing at the primitive weapon.
 
 
“The wood I did steal from Jarna’t,” I allowed, not being able to help the shame bleeding through my words, “But the rest? I made myself. The stone blade, the handle and the binding.”
 
 
“Reeeally?” she said, a curious look coming over to her face. She stopped cleaning her hand and brought it before her face, seeming to study my seed even as her eyes darted towards me, ‘And who taught you this?”
 
 
“No one,” I replied, “Or, well, this is my first try.”
 
 
Kan’a laughed and, to my mild disbelief, opened her mouth as her tongue darted out. It scooped up slurped all the rest of the seed from her hand into her maw.
 
 
“What a useful male indeed,” she hummed even as my dick started to awake again, “My sweet nephew, make more weapons like this?”
 
 
“And I promise you that I’ll make you VERY happy,” she told him with look that sent shivers down his spine.
 
 
And then she pushed out of her room.
 
 
I knew that favored males were treated like pets. I knew that falling out of favor after having gotten in it was like having a limb chopped off. I knew that sex of this kind was basically a tool of manipulation and if not an outright reason to molest me.
 
 
But I didn’t care.
 
 
I was, at that moment, intoxicated.
 
 
I didn’t like aunt Kan’a. I couldn’t even say that I was that attracted to her.
 
 
But the authority that she had over me, and the sweet promises that she laid on the ground like breadcrumbs flipped a switch in me.
 
 
She was a powerful woman who had power over me. And, instead of tearing down what I had built up, instead rejecting me for flaws that I was well aware I had and for some that only existed in her head, she had rewarded me.
 
 
I knew it was manipulative and I knew what this was.
 
 
But I had built a literal caveman weapon and had been rewarded for it.
 
 
And I could make so much much better than that.