Replace the use of 'he' with 'she' for Lord Varain if I've missed any.

My partner's real life gender is irrelevant to me. Those interested would be playing the captured (Emperor/Prince/Empress/Queen/Princess/Quite possibly anything else, open to suggestions) for a short-term, albeit high quality smut plot. Details can be discussed between us, but the presumed explanation is that they were taken prisoner amidst a battle some nights ago by the leader of a broad alliance of slaves and their emancipator sympathizers, banking families, mercenaries, and many others. I do have a larger universe that this takes place in, but the importance of worldbuilding is tenuous at best. I'm happy to waffle on about it, but it isn't crucial to know anything in particular. Molly's name is entirely open to change and her relationship to YC.

Kinks? Nearly every single vanilla and lukewarm one there is; emphasis on spankings and collars and intelligence alongside contrast (of all kinds; strength, strata, skin color, height) and power exchange. Kissing, oral sex (giving and receiving), unexpected couples. I'm interested in a threesome for this prompt where my partner plays Molly as described below, but I understand if a prospective partner would prefer she gets dismissed from the scene. Clever and thoughtful dialogue is appreciated. Especially open to characters that break the mold of a reactionary or conservative royal; though that's plenty sexy and fun.

Limits? Non-con, tentacles, futa, toys, animals, boring and stereotypical characters, overly bitter reactions and rebelliousness that chews up the scenery. Ridiculously voluptuous or muscular characters. Anything that doesn't naturally segue into the scene.

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Long shadows dance between each tent wall that she passes by.

Demons, perhaps. Or their worshippers. Or more dangerous yet, drunken soldiers who had just experienced the greatest week of their lives. Inebriated as much on victory as on imperial vintage wine, they stumble between pavilions, plucking through the belongings of those whom they had sent flying past the mountainsides. Their Shepherd had promised them loot in exchange for battle, and they’d gotten away their rewards with few even having had to raise their blades.

Betrayal. Sylvan Varain had struck at his royalist allies in nearly the same moment he’d come to their aid, having the moon as the only guide they needed to lead his men into his peers’ camps, knives had found throats and before long the entire camp was all but emptied of proper, loyal men and women. Those that stayed, turned, turning torches around to every flag bearing the buck of Caen-Sarter – and then to most of the camp when a fire broke out. An unintended one, this time.

That had dampened the mood. Slightly.

Still, three days later and the camp was still in high spirits. Few seemed in a proper enough place to be aware of their two visitor’s presences, and those that could be bothered to acknowledge them didn’t seem keen to disobey their master’s orders.

On their way to Lord Varain’s tent they must have passed hundreds of what used to be ‘their’ men. Colors turned inside out, sharing the same food and drink that littered the floor with mercenary and slave like. Copper collars were amassed across the floor, some in pyres, some in haphazard and broken pieces across the floor where somebody had taken a mallet to them.

Some eye Molly’s collar with the hate one regards a childkiller. Their pity is almost as noticeable. Almost.

A smidge of sanity seems to remain in the inner circle of tents where her father’s pavilion once stood, his goat torn down and replaced with a violet eye. Varain’s colors. Indeed, there was violet everywhere. The color of magic and demons and elves and of the many men and women in his court, apparently. Even here they seemed dressed to impress, courtiers and soldiers stepping in and out of each tent with too much to do to notice either women or offer directions. There didn’t even seem to be a guard posted to keep an eye on them, but it wasn’t like they needed directions. She knew her father’s tent by heart, and when they found it, they found the man they’d been looking for.

She's larger than most elves they've met, her dusty, violet eyes peering at them through the thick smell of incense and straight through a goblet of wine he was pretending to drink. A rare sphere of candor in a spiral of chaos, his stitched and well-fit clothes making her particularly odd considering just how completely trashed the room is. Every imperial eagle, one for each legion, had been thrown to the floor or carted off. Her throne has been tipped over and probably pissed on, and the bed looked like an ogre had an orgy on it, its mantle torn apart and its silk drapes torn or fallen to the floor.

On the floor? More food and drink. Splints of wood. Blood. On what remains of a table that cost more than half the empire? The semblance of a proper meal, which, to anybody’s shock, smelled magnificent. At the center of it, Lord Varain, smiling invitingly and waving them further inside, her form difficult to properly see through the haze of heat and aroma.

“My ladies!” She greets, calling them with too much happy familiarity. “Apologies. I would’ve had somebody lead you here, but most of my followers are drunk or high. Have a seat, please.”

Only two chairs were left, and both were close to their host.