Successful in their venture to foil the attempts of a cult looking to release their leviathan god and wreck havoc upon the Material Plane, Delia and her party were well within their rights to celebrate their victory.

It was a hard-fought battle, with several close calls, in the flooded ruins of the would-be sea god—the culmination of several months of investigating and following leads across the continent—but they had dragged themselves out of that temple bloodied and bruised and victorious, with bags and pockets lined with treasures, gold, precious gems. The port city might not ever know just how close it was to being swallowed up by a calamitous storm but if you asked Delia, that was all fine and good. After all, in the city’s blissful ignorance, business continued as usual, its people having been spared from the terror of knowing they were but a hair’s breadth from being wiped off the map.

Delia and her party had rested for a day or two, before they were fit to properly celebrate. With the money to burn, and drunk on success, they took to the streets as the sun hid itself behind the horizon. They went from tavern to tavern together, drinking and gambling and dancing, before breaking off to go their separate ways well into the night. Some of the party went to bring their business to the brothels, and others yet went off to explore the city with all its colorful sights and sounds.

Delia returned to one of the taverns they had visited earlier in the night, needing a respite from getting swept up in the momentum of her party. She loved them dearly, her friends, but she enjoyed things at a slower pace.

She took up a booth in the tavern’s corner, and drank the ale the bar maid brought her. Delia then asked for a bottle of the tavern’s best wine and some food to pair with it, before making herself comfortable.

Delia cradled her lute, drawing her fingers across its strings. The instrument had seen better days, with scratches and marks across its wooden form, old and new; Delia could have easily mended it as good as new with magic, but she kept the scratches and marks because she liked stories each and every one stood for.

She was a bard, how could she not like stories?

A casual onlooker might have spared Delia a passing look of admiration; she was a striking young tiefling, with long blonde hair so pale it might as well have been white, and two dark blue horns sprouting from the top of her head, pronged like a deer’s. Her skin was a vibrant blue like that of a gemstone, exposed generously thanks to how very little clothing she wore to combat the tropical heat. A silk brassiere hugged her ripe breasts, matching the loose, flowing skirt that hung low around her hips and brushed her sandaled feet.

Delia strummed her lute, and began to sing. Her voice was low and sweet with a touch of melancholy. When her wine and food arrived at her table, Delia acknowledged the barmaid with a thankful nod but did not stop singing.

She only deigned to stop when a shadow fell upon her, and Delia raised her head only to find a familiar face standing across the table.

Her lips curled into an affectionate smile, eyes narrowing into golden crescents underneath long lashes.

“Care to join me for a drink and a song, love?”

. . .

Who might have sought out Delia the bard, and just what are their intentions? It could be another member of her party, or an ally to their cause that they had met over the course of the adventure.

Feel free to jump right in with the story and continue where I left off when you reply! I'm a descriptive and detailed partner and am looking for the same. I prefer writing in 3rd person!

Orange envelopes only, please; I will be ignoring any replies to the prompt that come over Reddit Chat.

Kinks: Monsters, Big Cocks, Romance, Affectionate Partners, Cumplay, Fantasy Raceplay, Age Gaps, Rough Sex, Name Calling, Hair Pulling, Body Worship, Impregnation, Breeding, Lactation, Light Bondage, Spanking

Limits: Gore, Snuff, Piss, Scat, Extreme Violence, Blood, Humiliation and Degradation