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"You know, the shadows really bring out your eyes."
Shadowheart didn't bother looking at Tav. She'd learned over the past few weeks that acknowledging these comments only encouraged more of them, like feeding a stray dog that had decided you were its new best friend. Instead, she kept her gaze fixed on the cursed landscape ahead, where skeletal trees clawed at a starless sky and the ground exhaled something that tasted like old graves.
"I'm serious," Tav continued, undeterred by her silence. They had the particular brand of confidence that came from never noticing when they weren't wanted. "Most people look washed out in this light, but you? You look right at home. In a good way. A mysterious, alluring way."
"Charming," Shadowheart said, her voice flat enough to rival the dead earth beneath their feet.
The Shadow-cursed lands pressed in around them like a held breath, thick and suffocating. This was Shar's domain—the Lady of Loss made manifest in rotting bark and ash-dark soil. Shadowheart had spent half her life training in darkness, learning to find comfort in the absence of light, to see shadow not as something to fear but as a sacred embrace.
Or at least, she thought she had. The memories were there, technically—dark corridors, cold stone, the scent of incense and old prayers. But they felt distant, like stories someone had told her about a person she used to be. The gaps in her recollection were normal, she'd been assured. Necessary, even. Shar's gift to her faithful: the loss of painful memories, the freedom from the weight of the past.
So why did this place make her feel like she was forgetting something important?
She pushed the thought away. Fear was weakness. Doubt was betrayal. She was a cleric of Shar, walking through her goddess's own domain. This should feel like coming home.
So why did her skin keep trying to crawl off her bones?
"I bet you know all sorts of secret dark magic," Tav continued, apparently interpreting her continued silence as interest rather than the pointed disinterest it actually was. "Maybe later you could teach me some clerical techniques? Private lessons?"
"Maybe later you could walk into a gelatinous cube," Astarion suggested from behind them, his tone suggesting he found the whole display entertaining in the way one might enjoy watching someone repeatedly walk into a wall.
Shadowheart allowed herself a small smile at that. At least someone in this party had taste.
They'd been walking for hours, and her body was starting to register complaints. The kind of mundane, physical discomforts that didn't care whether you were in a cursed shadowland or a pleasant meadow. She'd been ignoring the increasing pressure in her bladder for the last half hour, hoping they'd reach somewhere with actual cover, but the landscape remained stubbornly open—just ruins and dead trees and that oppressive, watchful darkness.
"I need a moment," she announced, already veering toward a cluster of collapsed walls that would provide some semblance of privacy. "Don't follow me."
"Oh, do you need—" Tav started.
"Don't. Follow. Me." She made it very clear what would happen if they did.
"Right. Sure. We'll just... wait here then."
Shadowheart moved quickly into the ruins, putting enough distance between herself and the party that she wouldn't have to hear Tav's voice or see Karlach's sympathetic looks. The moonlantern's light faded behind her, but she wasn't worried. She could see perfectly well in darkness—better than most, actually. It was one of the few gifts Shar had given her that she actually appreciated.
The ruins provided adequate cover, and she made quick work of her business, already planning the most cutting remark she could deliver to Tav when she returned. Something about how his flirtation was more cursed than the landscape.
That's when the silence changed.
It was subtle at first—a shift in the quality of the dead air, like the difference between a room that's empty and a room where something is holding very, very still. The kind of silence that has texture. Weight. Intention.
Shadowheart's hand moved toward her mace, every nerve suddenly singing with animal awareness that she was being watched.
The breathing came next.
Wet. Ragged. Close enough that she should be able to see what was making it, but there was nothing there—just shadows layered upon shadows, darkness folded into itself like origami made from night. The sound was wrong in a way that made her hindbrain scream. Not quite human. Not quite anything that should have lungs.
Her fingers closed around the mace's handle, and that's when the wire looped over her head.
It happened so fast her mind couldn't process it—one moment she was reaching for her weapon, the next something thin and cruel was around her throat, yanking tight with the efficiency of a slipknot. Not a hand. Not a rope. Something that bit into her skin like razor wire wrapped in silk, cutting off her air with surgical precision.
Shadowheart's hands flew to her neck on instinct, dropping the mace, trying to get her fingers under the garrote. But whoever—whatever—held it pulled tighter, and her fingertips only found the warm slickness of her own blood where the wire had already begun to cut.
She tried to scream. Managed nothing but a choked, airless wheeze.
Magic, her mind screamed. Cast something. Anything.
But the realization hit her like ice water: she couldn't speak. Without words, without the verbal components that shaped divine power into spells, her magic was useless. She was just another creature choking in the dark, and Shar's gifts meant nothing if she couldn't voice the prayers.
The thing behind her pulled her backward, off balance, and she finally felt it—the body pressed against her spine. Too thin. Too cold. Skin like damp parchment that had been left in a tomb for decades. But it was also hairy, like a man grown from mold and rot, with muscles that moved in ways no human anatomy should permit.
Her vision started to speckle with dark spots that had nothing to do with magic.
The wire pulled tighter.
Her lungs burned.
And the last thing she saw before the darkness took her was a face—gray and corpse-like, with hollow eyes and a mouth split too wide—leaning in close enough that she could smell the rot on its breath.
A meazel.
***
The meazel’s cock twitched above her, a bead of their mingled fluids sliding from its hooked tip and landing on her parted lips like a benediction. Shadowheart’s tongue darted out instinctively, tasting the salt and rot of him, of herself, of this filthy act.
"Stoooppp..." she husked.
The leash—no, her leash—hung loose for now, but its weight around her bruised throat was a promise. A collar. A vow. The thin wire of the garrote, now transformed in her mind into this twisted symbol of submission, bit into her skin just enough to remind her of its presence, a constant pressure that made every swallow a deliberate act, every breath a labored whisper.
She rose to her knees slowly, thighs slick and trembling, the distant voices of her companions swallowed again by the cursed dark. The danger of discovery still thrummed in her blood like a second heartbeat, but it wasn’t fear anymore. It was hunger. She didn’t care. Not really. The world could burn. The tadpole could burst.
And yet, as she knelt there, the garrote's unyielding grip around her neck—a razor-thin line of fire—stirred a flicker of resistance. This wasn't her. She was Shadowheart, cleric of Shar, mistress of shadows and loss. Not some broken plaything for a wretched creature like this.
The meazel watched her with those black, glittering eyes, head cocked like a curious carrion bird. His clawed hand reached down, not to strike or choke further, but to pet. A gnarled thumb brushed her cheek, smearing the mess there, and Shadowheart froze. The touch was repulsive—cold, flaky skin that smelled of damp earth and decay.
It made her stomach churn, even as the garrote tightened ever so slightly with her instinctive flinch, cutting into her airflow just enough to make her gasp softly. Stars danced at the edges of her vision, a reminder that he controlled her breath, her life.
No.
This was wrong. This was disgusting. She was a cleric of Shar, not some depraved animal rutting in the dirt with a meazel.
The thought hit her like cold water, and she jerked back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as if she could scrub the taste away. But the garrote held her in place, the wire digging deeper as she pulled, sending a sharp jolt of pain through her neck. Her hands flew to it on reflex, fingers scraping against the blood-slick cord, but it only tightened more, her breath coming in shallow, ragged bursts.
"Get away from me," she hissed, voice raw and cracked, each word fighting past the constriction. She scrambled backward on her knees, the leash dragging in the dirt, her hands fumbling for her mace—where was it?—but the meazel didn’t move. Just watched, head tilted, cock still hard and glistening with her shame.
She should scream. She should call for Tav, for Astarion, for anyone. They were close. So close. One shout and this would be over. The creature would teleport away, or they’d kill it, and she could pretend this never happened. She could forget. But as she opened her mouth, the garrote cinched tighter, turning what might have been a cry into a strangled wheeze. Her lungs burned, her throat a ring of fire, and the world tilted as oxygen deprivation set in.
Black spots bloomed in her vision, and beneath the panic, a treacherous heat pooled between her legs. The choking—it was too much, too intimate, a violation that her body betrayed her by craving.
"Myyy prettyyyy..." the abomination growled.
The meazel took a single step forward. Not threatening. Just there. His cock bobbed with the movement, and Shadowheart’s eyes dropped to it before she could stop herself. It was obscene. Too thick, too long, curved like a butcher’s hook. She hated it. She hated him. She hated how her body clenched at the sight, how her thighs pressed together involuntarily, slick with arousal that she couldn't deny.
The garrote relaxed just a fraction, allowing her a thin sip of air, but it was enough to make her head spin with relief—and shame. "Don’t," she warned, but her voice cracked, barely audible over the rasp of her breathing. "Don’t you dare—"
He reached for her again, slower this time. The leash tugged, not hard, just enough to remind her it was there, pulling her forward inch by inch. Her breath hitched, the wire biting into her flesh anew, restricting her airway to a narrow thread.
She tried to pull away, but her body wouldn’t obey. Her knees stayed planted in the dirt. Her back arched, just slightly, offering herself up like a sacrifice. The pressure on her throat was constant now, a deliberate choke that made every heartbeat echo in her ears, her pulse thundering against the cord.
"No," she whispered, but it sounded like a lie. "I’m not— I don’t—"
The garrote tightened. Not to kill. Just to hold. To claim. And Shadowheart’s resolve cracked like thin ice. The lack of air made her lightheaded, her thoughts fuzzy, and in that haze, the reluctance ebbed. Her hands, instead of fighting the cord, dropped to her sides. She leaned forward, drawn by the leash, her lips parting as if compelled.
She lunged forward, not to fight, but to take. Her mouth closed around his cock with a desperation that startled them both, a muffled moan vibrating in her throat as she sucked him down.
But even as she did, the garrote didn't loosen— it held steady, choking her as she bobbed her head, making each movement a struggle for breath. The taste of him—bitter, musky, wrong—flooded her senses, and she groaned, hips rocking against nothing. The leash guided her, pulling her deeper, until her nose pressed into the coarse hair at his groin and she gagged, tears streaming down her cheeks. The choke intensified her gag reflex, her throat convulsing around him, but she couldn't pull back— the wire kept her impaled on him, air a distant memory.
He held her there, throat fluttering around him, until her lungs screamed and her vision blurred to near-blackness.
After a few more disgustingly long seconds, the creature allowed a slight slack in the garrote, she gasped around his length, drool stringing from her lips to his cock like a silver thread. But the relief was fleeting; the wire tightened again almost immediately, forcing her to work through the choke, her sucks shallow and frantic.
She hated how her body responded, her cunt clenching with each restricted breath, arousal dripping down her thighs. This isn't me, she thought, even as she hollowed her cheeks and swirled her tongue, chasing the twisted pleasure-pain.
"Mmphhh..." she moaned an uncharacteristically whiney sound that surprised even herself.
She didn’t have time to recover fully. The leash yanked, and she was on her feet, spun around, pressed face-first against the crumbling wall.
The stone was cold against her breasts, her cheek, but his body was colder—damp parchment skin and wiry muscle pressing into her back.
His cock slid between her thighs, not entering yet, just teasing, dragging through the mess he’d made of her. She squirmed, trying to pull away, but the garrote held her in place, her hands scrabbling at the wall as the choke deepened. Air came in thin, wheezing gasps, her chest heaving uselessly.
"No," she gasped, but her hips pushed back against him, betraying her. "I can’t— I won’t—"
He entered her in one brutal thrust, bottoming out with a wet, obscene sound that echoed in the dark. The angle was perfect—cruel—his hooked cock dragging against that spot inside her with every punishing stroke.
The garrote tightened further as he began to move, choking her in rhythm with his thrusts, each inward plunge coinciding with a cinch that stole her breath. She clawed at the cord, nails digging into her own skin, but it only made the pressure worse, her vision tunneling as oxygen starvation heightened every sensation. Her body bucked against him, not in resistance now, but in surrender, her cunt gripping him like a vice as the choke pushed her toward the edge.
"OHHH Fuckkk..." she purred as she bit down on her lip, desperate to not let her friends hear. To not let them find her. To not let them... stop her.
She came almost immediately, a silent, shuddering thing that left her boneless and sobbing. The orgasm ripped through her, amplified by the garrote's unrelenting grip— her lungs burning, her throat raw, every nerve alight with the exquisite agony of asphyxiation.
He didn’t stop or slow. The leash loosened just enough for her to gasp, to beg in hoarse whispers—"Please... more..."—then tightened again as he fucked her through it, into another climax, and another, until she lost count. Each peak was a wave of blackness, the choke bringing her to the brink of unconsciousness before slackening just enough to pull her back, her body writhing in a cycle of torment and ecstasy.
Her reluctance had shattered somewhere in the haze.
"Shar forgive me," she thought dimly, but even that prayer was cut off by a fresh cinch of the garrote.
She pressed back into him now, grinding her hips to meet his thrusts, the wire around her neck a constant companion that made her feel owned, claimed, alive in a way the shadows never had. The meazel's claws dug into her hips, holding her steady as he pounded into her, the choke varying in intensity—tight enough to make her head swim during deep strokes, looser during withdrawals, a masterful control that kept her teetering on the edge.
Time blurred. Minutes? Hours? The cursed lands seemed to hold their breath with her, the darkness pressing in as intimately as the creature behind her. He shifted angles, lifting one of her legs to hook over his arm, opening her wider, and the new depth made her keen—a sound strangled to nothing by the wire around her throat.
Her nails raked the wall, leaving furrows in the stone, as another orgasm built, coiling tight in her core. The choke intensified, cutting off all air now, her face flushing hot, veins bulging in her neck. She thrashed, not to escape, but to chase the release, her body convulsing around him as she came harder than before, stars exploding behind her eyelids.
When the garrote finally slackened enough for a full breath, she gulped air greedily, only for it to tighten again as he spun her once more. She dropped to her knees without being told, mouth open, tongue out, the wire still choking her lightly, a perpetual reminder.
He didn’t come in her mouth. Not yet. Instead, he marked her—drooling hot, thick ropes of spend painting her face, her throat, dripping down to pool in the hollow of her collarbones. She wore it like jewelry. Like a brand. The garrote held her head up as he did it, forcing her to meet his beady eyes, her breaths shallow and obedient.
"Th-thank youuu..." she moaned.
But he wasn't done. The meazel's claws tangled in her hair, yanking her forward again, and she took him into her mouth once more, the garrote cinching tight to limit her movements.
She sucked through the choke, gagging and sputtering, her throat working around him as the wire bit deeper. Tears mixed with his spend on her cheeks, and she moaned around him, the vibration sending shudders through his spindly frame. Her hands, no longer resisting, reached up to stroke what she couldn't fit, her fingers slick and eager.
"Grrrhhh..." the creature rasped.
He pulled her off with a tug of the leash, only to flip her onto her back in the dirt. The ground was cold and unyielding, shards of stone digging into her skin, but she barely noticed as he mounted her again.
A moment later, the garrote tightened as he thrust back inside, choking her in time with his hips—tight on the in-stroke, a whisper of slack on the out. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, her nails raking down his flaky back.
"Yes... master..." she rasped when the wire allowed, the word slipping out unbidden, fueling her shame and arousal in equal measure.
The meazel growled, a wet, ragged sound that sent shivers through her. He leaned down, his rotten breath hot on her face, and bit into her shoulder—not hard enough to break skin, but enough to mark. She was his.
The pain bloomed alongside the choke, pushing her into yet another climax. Her body arched off the ground, toes curling, cunt spasming around him, and she screamed silently, the garrote stealing her voice. He fucked her through it, relentless, the wire never fully releasing, keeping her in a perpetual state of breathlessness that made every sensation sharper, more intense.
As the orgasms blurred into one endless wave, Shadowheart's mind fractured.
Memories—real or implanted by Shar—flashed behind her eyes: dark cloisters, whispered prayers, the sting of loss. But they paled against this. The garrote was her prayer now, the choke her devotion. She bucked against him, hips slamming up to meet his, chasing the next peak even as her lungs screamed for mercy. The meazel's pace quickened, his thrusts erratic, and she felt him swell inside her.
"OHH OHHHHHH YES!!!"
With a final, brutal cinch of the garrote—tight enough to make the world go black at the edges—he came, flooding her with his seed. The choke held as he pulsed, drawing out her own release, her body milking him dry in a frenzy of clenching muscles. When he finally slackened the wire, she collapsed, gasping, her throat a throbbing ruin. He stayed inside her, softening but not pulling out, his cock a plug keeping his spend from spilling out.
"Myyyy... prettyyy... nowwww..." the creature rasped.
Shadowheart didn't respond. She couldn't. Her voice was gone, her throat too raw for even a whisper. She lay there, covered in dirt and spend, the garrote still around her neck—a permanent collar now, it seemed, its constant presence a dull ache that promised future violations. Her cunt throbbed, her body exhausted but still humming with that dangerous energy, craving more even as she hated herself for it.
The meazel finally pulled out, and with a wet sound, his seed trickled out onto her thighs. He stood over her, watching, before spitting—a wad of phlegm and bile—onto her chest. It was degrading, disgusting, and she felt a traitorous flutter of heat in her belly at the gesture.
She closed her eyes, surrendering to the moment, to the disgrace, to the impossible truth that she had enjoyed it. That she wanted more.
He toyed with her longer, the wire alternating between slack and tight as he positioned her on all fours, entering her from behind once more. The choke synchronized with his movements, tightening on each thrust, loosening just enough to keep her conscious. Shadowheart pushed back into him, her reluctance long gone, replaced by a fervent need.
"Harder," she begged in the brief moments of air, "Choke me harder..." The meazel obliged, the garrote biting deep, her vision fading in and out as he rutted into her like an animal.
Another orgasm crashed over her, her body seizing, and she clawed at the dirt, toes curling. The choke amplified it, turning pleasure into something transcendent, a blur of pain and bliss that left her trembling. He followed soon after, spilling inside her again, the wire holding her in place until he was spent.
"MMMMMPPHHH!!!" she screamed.
This time, when he pulled out, the meazel didn't linger. He gathered his spend from her body with a clawed hand, smearing it across her face like war paint—a final marking. Then, with the garrote still around her neck, he used it to pull her up, to stand before him. She was a mess—disheveled, bruised, covered in his fluids, the wire biting into her throat.
She swayed on her feet, weak and trembling, but her eyes met his—black, glittering, and utterly shameless.
When he finally stepped back, the leash fell away entirely. Shadowheart stayed on her knees, trembling, staring up at him with something perilously close to adoration. The meazel tilted his head, then vanished—a ripple of shadow and the faint scent of rot the only sign he’d ever been there.
She didn’t move for a long time. Her throat was a mess of bruises and cuts, each breath a painful rasp, but the ache between her legs matched it, a satisfying throb that made her smile weakly. The garrote's absence felt like a loss, a void where control had been.
When she finally stood, her legs barely held her. The leash was gone, but the bruises remained—dark, perfect circles around her throat like a necklace of violets. She touched them gingerly, wincing, then smiled.
A secret, filthy thing. Her clothes were ruined. Her dignity, nonexistent. But as she stumbled back toward the faint glow of the moonlantern, toward the voices calling her name with increasing panic, she felt lighter than she had in years. Shar’s gifts were nothing compared to this. Loss? Pain? She’d take them all, if they came with this.
Tav’s voice cut through the dark. “Shadowheart? There you are! What happened? You’re—”
She silenced them with a look. Her hand rose to her throat, fingers brushing the bruises, and she smiled—slow, sharp, and utterly unrepentant.
“Don’t,” she said, voice rasping like gravel. “Ask.”
And for once, Tav shut up.