The Silvermoon Embassy
Copyright© 2025 by SerynSiralas
Chapter 1
Fan Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 1 - A newly established kaldorei embassy in Silvermoon, well-stocked with towering and enormously endowed sentinels, begins the process of hiring suitable local sin'dorei help. Liriel, former servant to a minor local noble, becomes the first to respond to the embassy's call for employees, and the first to undergo the very personal interview process. At the feet of the sentinel Captain in command.
Caution: This Fan Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Fa Consensual Hermaphrodite Fiction Futanari DomSub Rough Masturbation Oral Sex Size
In a fit of extremely justified pique, Liriel, unable to find a single loose pebble on the paved streets of Silvermoon, tore a still green apple from its branch and tossed it at the dark window before her, one of many in her former place of employment. Fortunately, the glass was thick, and all that its meeting with the fruit caused was a thump that disturbed the still night. A large golem, an arcane guardian, stirred from its resting place several houses down, shimmering arcane power lighting in what made it out for a head as it scanned the abandoned streets of early morning and found nothing and no one. Save a still-rolling apple. And, echoing, the sound of footsteps rapidly fading.
Liriel beat a hasty retreat away from the golem, finding her near empty bottle of imported arcwine where she had left it. In a corner, in a little crook, beneath a semi-circular arch across the street. Behind her, the dark and dead residence of Astrinoth, Blood Knight and minor noble launched into some prominence by the still too fresh decimation of the sin’dorei people, remained still. Every servant, every guard, everyone connected in any way to the house had been dismissed. Without family left behind, the news of the knight’s death beneath the Isle of Dorn, fighting nerubian spiderpeople, had seen his estate pass into the emotionless and efficient hands of the city. Its executor had immediately cut expenses to nothing, and put the house and its contents up for sale.
What had been a relatively sedate job, at least while her master was away on various military assignments, had come to an abrupt end. Liriel swore as the mouth of the bottle touched her lips again, the curse disappearing, amiably bubbling, into the liquid within.
It wasn’t the knight she cursed, necessarily. It was the city itself. It was the faceless bureaucrat who oversaw the dismantling of several handfuls of lives, former employees. The trouble was, if she went near the Sunfury Spire, throwing an apple was liable to get her apprehended. It still had been, here, but a single golem proved too tied up in its mess of priorities – watching and protecting the neighborhood at once – to go and investigate a solitary sound.
She sighed, and downed what remained of the wine. Wanted to throw the bottle away, but thought better of it. Two white and gold facades up the street, another golem stood silent watch, and she had no suitable explanation to give to it, should the glass shatter and should it come after her. So, instead, she placed the empty bottle down in the middle of the street, the blue glass ready to catch the first rays of the morning sun. Once it rose far enough to pass the many spires and walls of Silvermoon, and deigned to touch its streets.
Another long and expensive night. Two whole bottles emptied, and, no longer employed, she could not afford the first, never mind the second. Certainly not the second for four nights in a row. Even so, Liriel could not bring herself to look for work, yet. The low level anxiety of impending doom was yet just a cold churning at the bottom of her stomach, an inevitability, but one she could still put off. It would rise, given time, to be paralyzing. And then to a roaring crescendo which overcame paralysis, and forced her to act. When she could no longer pay for the two adjoining rooms she rented on the edge of the shadier streets not far from the row.
No bottle left to absorb her curses, Liriel reached up to wipe her forehead, sweeping away the cold morning dew that made golden-blonde locks cling to her skin. And then let out an unabashed string of swears, stumbling back towards her home. With a little luck, she would make it back before the lady who oversaw the building woke, and thus, she might get to sleep without any comment on the lateness of the hour. Or the lack of someone on her arm, dragged home with her. Why did the woman care so much about the relationships of her tenants?
Liriel upped her pace at that thought.
It was past noon when she woke to the piercing, corn-yellow, saccharine light of the supposedly glorious sun lancing through poorly drawn drapes. For several hours, it had traveled up her body while she slept, finally forcing her awake when it crawled up to batter her closed eyes with its insistent presence. She awoke, a thumping slowly manifesting in her head, her throat and mouth dry, feeling glued into a single mass. A messy line of clothes and boots measured last night’s path from the door to her bed. The barely furnished bedroom smelled of dust and wine. She had spilled some of it on herself the night before, and had nothing else to wear. Nothing clean.
Twenty minutes later, Liriel left the building, leaving behind the kindly but nevertheless judging eyes of the landlady. With nothing edible in her place, she had no choice but to seek somewhere to eat in the city, though, really, she wanted only to be left alone. To lie in the dark, in silence, and wait for her hangover to pass. She felt uncertain about whether she could even eat anything without throwing up, but, at the same time as that uncertainty made itself felt in her upset stomach, it also contorted with hunger. She had no choice, and so, she wandered down the reddish-brown stones some ten buildings until she arrived at the eatery.
It had a name, but she purposefully did not remember it. It was not a favored place, but it was the closest place, and its owner was precisely the right level of standoffish for her tastes. Served respectable croissants, and decent tea, and otherwise talked as little as possible.
The place had been the same for many years. Small windows always in need of a wash. Tables and chairs outside chained to hooks set in the external wall, marked and worn by the weather. One thing was new, however. On the wall, next to the door, a sturdy poster had been hung, filled with cursive writing and a few odd-looking symbols. Not Thalassian symbols. Crescent moons, and purple shields, and green and brown from branches and leaves. Kaldorei? She placed herself before it, tired, aching eyes trying to take in the words. What were night elves doing in Silvermoon?
She spared a single glance to the owner, and he seemed to understand his assignment, getting both her customary peach tea and croissant with chocolate flakes on top ready while she tried to study the poster. With the armistice seeming, largely, to hold, a few years having passed, a small delegation of Kaldorei had been dispatched to represent the parent race, as the poster put it, in the form of a newly established embassy in Silvermoon. Understandably, such a place needed workers, and servants. First, though, the seneschal of the embassy sought a local to be her partner, immediate subordinate, someone acting as second in command. A seneschal, major-domo, to those locals who would be brought on at a later date.
Liriel narrowed her eyes, reading the bottom passage of text a second time. The ideal candidate had to be flexible of body and mind, and, crucially, had to either be of the faith of Elune already, or be willing to adopt it as a prerequisite for employment.
An absurd requirement in Quel’thalas. Who would adopt a foreign religion just to get a job – an uncertain one, given the history of broken peace agreements between the Alliance and the Horde. Someone desperate, perhaps. Even with these thoughts settling in her, there was still a moment’s mild vertigo as she took in the advertised pay. And the somewhat odd note that, should one be employed by the embassy, the same protection extended to its kaldorei residents would be extended to the employee, too.
Liriel’s eyes lingered on the pay. Two and a half times what she had earned working for the knight, but then, she had not been in a position to command anyone, then. He also had not demanded that she turn to some strange new faith in order to work for him. In the end, she stayed in place and reread the entire poster once more, then scoffed, looking around to see if anyone was nearby who needed more of a demonstration of how uninterested she was and, finding no one, went inside to fork over the few coins asked for her meal. The kaldorei desperately needed someone to tell them that they would get nowhere demanding that their employees take up the faith, and, had her hangover not been quite so thunderous, Liriel might have taken it upon herself to go and tell them. It was too early to begin drinking in earnest, and she had to pass the time somehow.
She passed the time, instead, with lazily people-watching, consuming half the croissant, all the tea, and then several more cups of it. The sun had long ago crested the sky, and begun its slow descent, and really, Liriel thought, she could get used to life like this. Rising to do not much at all, and then amusing herself in the evening and night. Finances disagreed that that was a good long term plan, but at least for a little while, another week, perhaps, she could sustain it.
As the sun kissed the domed roof of a nearby dwelling, opposite where she reclined, she raised her hand to block it and continue to watch those milling past. Her eyes settled on a rather upsetting sight, though – a forsaken. A jawless, undead creature, its tongue hanging down to slather spittle against its decrepit neck. Not hungrily, exactly, but it became clear that its attention was on her. She could not think of anything she might have done to attract its attention, but then, creeps of all sorts needed little encouragement save her mere existence.
Two more, and then another two, joined the first. All of them furtively looking in her direction, here and there. Clearly keeping an eye on her, offering no explanation for their sudden interest. They disrupted the flow of people, too, everyone hurrying past the small gathering. Unpleasant-looking and, when the wind changed so that Liriel could confirm it herself, unpleasant-smelling, they expertly drained the area of people.
“Probably time to go,” she mused to herself, still uncertain of why the group would so care for her. It would be a bad idea to go home, to show them where she lived, so she rose abruptly and went the opposite direction. Into the network of alleyways that made up the seedier district of the grand sin’dorei capital, where she imagined she might be able to disappear. It proved unnecessary, the five forsaken not even bothering to tail her. Soon enough, they were out of sight, and no hint of them betrayed that they might be following out of sight.
Until the powerful and unpleasant scent of rot wafted from an alleyway on her left.
She turned to look, and, in the very moment she did so, understood her mistake. A cold, clammy hand closed on her shoulder. A blade rose to her throat, and, pliant as she imagined anyone so threatened would be, she followed the direction of the hand’s pull. Into the dusky alley, where four dark faces, soon joined by the jawless fifth who had been decoy on the opposite side, stared at her with a mixture of disappointment and expectation.
“Hey,” Liriel said, her voice trembling just so. She fought to keep it steady, but the seemingly emotionless forsaken were not to be trifled with. Horde or not, she knew that pity was unlikely to be her ally, rather that they would have a reason for accosting her so. For capturing her, rather than killing her. Not that she had the faintest idea of why they would be interested, if the encounter was indeed more than simple robbery. Regardless, logic would serve better in dealing with the emotionless husks.
“You worked for the Blood Knight, Astrinoth, yes?”
One of them, purple hood pulled back to reveal empty eye sockets lit up by sickening yellow flames, his skin desiccated, gray and green, asked.
“Yeah,” Liriel said. Her gaze flickered from one, to the next, and the next. “I did. He’s dead.”
“And he died far away. Conveniently. Just before his debts were to be collected,” a second of the forsaken said.
Liriel’s gaze flickered to the jawless one, the one she had seen first, as if that one was somehow more trustworthy, or could be drawn on for aid. Lacking a mouth within which to form recognizable words, it – he – merely nodded.
“So? I was just a servant,” she said. Shifting just so. Not too much. The knife’s edge still lingered terrifyingly close to her throat, and in the darkness of the alley, back against a wall that had once been bleached white, now an ugly mustard from the detritus and leavings of decades, no one would find her any time soon. She would be just another unfortunate, but someone with no real connection. Like so many other sin’dorei, her family had disappeared in the avalanche of the undead that overtook Quel’thalas when Arthas came. With death a real possibility, their faces rose to the surface of her thoughts, though she forced her attention to the five undead ruffians so as to not make a move or twitch her facial features in a way that might displease them.
“I didn’t even know he had any debts.”
“We have been to his residence. There are no signs of the extravagance his loans should have afforded him, and so, we reason that he instead passed some of it on to his employees. We intend to collect what we can,” the one with the flaming eyes said.
“Or, he ... he took it with him? Why would he give anyone working for him gold? More than we agreed upon, anyway.”
“I could bite her fingers off,” one of the ones in the back hissed. It wore rags beneath armor seemingly not cleaned and barely cared for in many years, and its stench, the stench of all five, of mulch and rotting meat and insect droppings, seemed especially strong from that one. “One at a time. One knuckle at a time, until she talks.”
Liriel’s heart seemed to liquefy, melting into the pit of her stomach. A cold, thick soup that weighed her down, from which a paralyzing, tingling feeling spread throughout her every limb.
“Wait! Wait, I ... how am I supposed to pay anything if I’m at the medic trying to get my fingers reattached? Think about it. Just, have a few drinks. On me! I’ll gather whatever I can, and we can meet again tomorrow. At the eatery? Same time?”
Very carefully, slowly, she moved one hand down her flank, to her belt, loosening the strap that held her belt pouch cinched up. A considerable part of her rather wobbly finances were within, enough for a few nights of drinking. Or enough for a handful of forsaken not to start taking body parts, she dearly hoped. “Not that I have much. I promise you, sir Astrinoth did not dole out much to his people, even if he was fair and just.”
Yellow-eyes reached into Liriel’s pouch, the movement causing her belt to tug at her, making her adjust her stance to counterbalance it pressure. Not only was the feeling of someone else digging around in her things unpleasant, the feeling of rotting flesh being used to do it made her want to throw up. Throw the thing out, and get a new one. She managed a feeble smile, instead, as if she really was not all that bothered by a forsaken thug taking her money.
“It would be unwise to try to avoid us,” he said.
“I wouldn’t,” Liriel said, a little too quickly. “Where would I go? Silvermoon is all I know. And you don’t tire, do you? Don’t need to eat, or drink? Running isn’t a sound plan.”
The arresting hand removed from her shoulder, blade likewise taken away from her throat and hand withdrawn from her now empty pouch, Liriel flattened herself against the wall and crept along it a few steps. Pushed off of it, backed a few more steps away, watching to see if any of the ill-smelling thugs had any last-minute, murderous ideas, and then turned and speed-walked away. Not back home, not immediately, just away. A grand circle of the city, heart ever pounding in her throat.
She came by a building that had once been the city home of a noble family wiped out in the fall of Quel’thalas, having stood externally maintained but empty for years. Caught glimpses of its transformation, silver crescent moon symbols, freshly shaped and polished, put up on its facade, reflecting light onto the bone-white and earthen red stones paving the street. Still a largely traditional building, roots breaking paving stone near its front, exiting windows and crawling up its exterior to support purple banners nevertheless had begun the process of marking it as alien. The home of kaldorei, now.
Liriel shook her head, having come to a momentary and unintended stop before the embassy, and started again. She zigzagged through streets and alleys, across plazas, through courtyards, to eventually return home to her rented rooms. In there, she had a single, long knife, suitable for cutting choice meat. One she had always imagined she might use on an intruder, though she had no idea how to fight with it. Equally, her wealth, now seriously diminished, might just about cover the next month’s rent if she decided against eating for the next two weeks. And the undead would come for it the next day, and she would have nothing left. Perhaps she could sell her bed?
In the end, the forsaken seemed the types not to be satisfied with taking only what she could easily give them. They would no doubt hound her until she was on the street, and then until she was dead. Unfeeling, merciless, and liable to collect every possible coin, whether it drove her into an early grave or not. With few friends and no allies – she was just a servant, who would fight for her? – there was little she could do but try to flee. Something that was a terrible idea, for all the reasons she had given the decaying undead with the flaming eyes, but nevertheless the only option left to her. With a little luck, the five would focus their efforts on her former colleagues, not caring overmuch if a single target slipped through their fingers.
Liriel wondered where she might go, walking to the window pointing out at the small square that her side of the residential block pointed out at. And, staring into the descending darkness, interrupted by the occasional arcane or living flame, she saw two yellow, flickering spots across the way. A humanoid shape leaning against the white facade of the building opposite, the few passersby giving it a wide berth, its attention raised precisely to her window.
That same fear from earlier, prompted by the knife, found a renewed strength, settling more firmly in her stomach, making her heart pound in her chest as she scrambled back. Had he seen her? Were they watching elsewhere? Why care so much just for her? Could she still flee? Myriad thoughts charged through her mind, bowling over any semblance of logic and coherence, leaving her precious little ability to think. Liriel retreated towards her bed, sinking down to sit on its edge when she felt it against her calves, trying to breathe. To calm herself. Swallowed, gasped for breath, and then swallowed again. Why was she producing so much saliva? Why was she out of breath?
Shaking her head, she raised her fingers to her temples, rubbing circular patterns. Then patted her cheeks, blinked, and stared down at the worn, pinewood planks that made up her floor, as if the dry, long-dead wood might offer her some sort of answer.
It was the wood that lead her thoughts down their fateful path towards the poster and its drawings. The embassy. The demand that employees convert to the faith of Elune, the rather sordid-sounding requirement that those interested in the position be of flexible mind and body. But, more importantly, in the quiet despair of early evening, alone in her rented rooms and with thugs who felt no fear, no pain, no hunger after her and what meager riches she possessed, Liriel’s thoughts went to the final offer on the poster. Not the generous pay, but that of protection. The night elves, she thought, might think that working for them would endanger their employees, but she considered it unlikely. Instead, they might attract people like her – those who could use armed and trained friends, and right quick.
Liriel raised and slowly circled her fingers against her own cheeks, soothing herself. Golden eyes staring ahead, seeing nothing, letting half-formed thoughts ride roughshod over and through her mind, trying to let her subconscious come up with a decision. She could not make it herself, not with reason. It had to be emotion. The right course, which she would then dedicate to. Take her chances with the thugs? Try to flee, whether they watched or not? Or seek some sort of twisted sanctuary in the kaldorei embassy?
She had some idea of what kind of flexibility would be demanded of her, and, in truth, found herself attracted to most of the tall, feral-looking sentinels. Not that she had seen many. A few war prisoners, paraded around over the years. Even then, they had looked almost imperious. Proud, even in defeat. It was difficult to imagine what those not so defeated would look like. Act like. Again, she shook her head, but this time it was to clear it of foggy, mental depictions of strong, purple-skinned bodies, hard eyes, and other, even harder things. The forsaken thugs stood little chance against such images, but she had to deal with what was before her.
Though no clear answer had risen from her subconscious, at least not in the form of a word, Liriel considered the other thoughts enough of an answer. Still clad in her simple, button-up white linen shirt, gray-brown trousers, and boots of a similar color that reached up past her ankles, she was ready for Silvermoon’s warm evening. Gathering the coin that remained to her from their three secret hiding places – beneath the armoire, behind the left cushion of the sofa, and in the depths of the cutlery drawer – she only picked up two things not usually brought with her. A knife, and her identification papers.
So armed, Liriel locked her apartment, uncertain about whether she would see it again, and padded down the stairs. Successfully avoiding the landlady, who was perhaps eating, or sleeping already, she slipped out the building. Looked across the square to still see the two pinpricks of oddly clear yellow flame, and then hurried along.
The circuitous route through back alleys and small streets and courtyards had proved pointless, if at least one of the thugs had found her home anyway. This reasoning backing her, and the thought that they would be unlikely to grab and threaten her in the middle of the larger, paved streets, she stuck to wide spaces. Places patrolled by guards. A slightly longer route, but one that would still lead her to the building she had passed earlier. There was a flutter in her throat, a worry at the back of her mind, though: The question of whether the night elves would let anyone in at so late an hour. Whether they would interview anyone for the position of, what, second seneschal? Major-domo of the locals?
Liriel glanced over her shoulder more than once, and, each time she did so, she upped her speed a little more. Sometimes, she saw nothing. Sometimes, she told herself that she saw two yellow points of light. At times, her nostrils seemed to catch the scent of slow decay. Did she saw the silhouette of a creature without a jaw?
Turning onto the grand boulevard upon which the former noble mansion, now embassy, sat, she abandoned whatever propriety or refinement might be left, and broke into a run. Her ears told her that it had been the right decision, as she heard shuffling and low cursing in the rough language of the Lordaeronian undead behind her. They were closer than she had thought, and faster than she imagined, but not so fast as to catch up to her before she reached the double doors into the embassy.
“Please be open, please be open,” Liriel breathed as she sprinted down the white paving stones, shouldering the doors with a thump. They rocked back and forth, but did not move. With shuddering, panicked fingers, she took a hold of a handle, and tried to pull. Push. The lock clacked, and did not give. The doors were twice her height, and likely weighed considerably more than her, and so she considered bashing one of them down an impossibility. Even so, she threw herself shoulder-first at one of them for a second, and then a third time. Behind her, the shuffling had slowed, and though the forsaken did not laugh, she could sense their pleased sentiment at her predicament.
“Fuck. Fuck.” She pulled and pushed again. Pulled. To no avail. “Fuck.”
Turning, leaning her back against the door that might, she felt, now become the headstone of her early grave, Liriel attempted to flash a winning smile at the slowly encroaching undead. Her lips parted, though she was uncertain of what was going to come out of them. Something that would save her, that would convince the five to go elsewhere, no doubt. Something amazing.
Instead, the lock clicked, at the double doors opened inwards.
Entirely unprepared, Liriel struggled and failed to keep her balance, falling backwards. Not to the floor, but instead awkwardly mashing against the armored flank and strong thigh of some very tall person who had appeared in the doorway as it was opened. Sliding down this unknown being, she ended up on her butt, on the ground, looking up at the five forsaken. Flame-eyes seemed incensed, rather suddenly, instead of the glee she had sensed from him and his companions the moment before. Looking further up, Liriel saw a towering figure. A kaldorei woman. A sentinel, most likely, though, in truth, she knew terribly little of her cousin race. No doubt, they had warriors not called sentinels.
Liriel’s eyes flickered to the long, thick bulge in the sentinel’s trousers. The front of her thigh was armored, but the inner thigh, though vulnerable to attack, was not. If it had been, it would have had to have a very odd, distended shape in order to accommodate the beast that seemed to lie in wait inside. Shaking her head, then, Liriel tore her eyes away. Saw the blue, luminous eyes of the warrior, sharp features, the facial markings of the night elves, though the pattern was impossible to make out from the ground. Blue hair the color of a star-speckled midnight summer sky framed the sentinel’s face.
While Liriel took in her would-be savior, there was a staring match between the forsaken five and the kaldorei. Lips curled back from the sentinel’s teeth, revealing elongated fangs, perfect for latching on. And for tearing flesh. For their part, the undead laid hands on weapons, though they backed away, too.
“Go back inside, knife-ears. We are here for the trash sat outside your door, not you.”
“I’m-- I’m here for the ... as, seneschal!” blurted Liriel, shifting a few inches backwards, across the threshold just a few inches. But inside the building, nevertheless. Until the sentinel tossed her out, of course. “The interview. Poster!”
A second, equally impressive figure appeared in the doorway, behind the first sentinel. Teal hair, eyes more white than blue. She laid a hand on Liriel’s shoulder. A strong hand, one that could easily be a threat – a greater threat than the forsaken, even. In that moment, though, it seemed reassuring. Tugged her a few more inches past the threshold.
“The trees will grow tall from feeding upon the mulch that I will churn your bodies into, little corpse,” said the first sentinel. “I care not what your business is with this one. If she is unsuitable, she will be out again in due time. Until then: Begone. I will not ask again.”
Liriel scrabbled further backwards, attention still on the forsaken, and the sentinel in the doorway. A savior figure, though not a willing one. Certainly not one that cared, or she would not have suggested that Liriel might be tossed out to the metaphorical wolves again. Nevertheless, the warrior stood tall, staring down at the suddenly rather pathetic-looking, bent figures outside. When faced with someone their equal, or better, thugs always seemed to crumble. Not that Liriel had had much chance of experiencing such situations first-hand. She was slim, and below average height, and untrained in martial pursuits. Excellent with a ledger, or, in a pinch, with a rolling pin and an oven, but not with claw or blade.
Yellow-eyes backed a few steps away, along with his companions, though his weighty attention settled on Liriel. “We will be waiting,” he said.
The door closed with what Liriel hoped was finality. With what she wished was her last sight of the five unpleasant undead. She wet her lips, then, looking at the inside of the closed door. At the teal-haired sentinel locking it again, who then made her way to the second, interior double door, the rectangular, wide but short room that all three of them now occupied seeming like a sluice. Something to let the fight drain out of guests before they were allowed into the inner sanctum, perhaps. She looked around, her eyes adjusting to the dusky interior. Cleaned, but still run down after a decade and more unused, empty filigree holders for arcane orbs that might shed light, the room instead lit by the light of each elf’s eyes. White, pale blue, and golden.