Soul Alloy
4 — A Soul, Touched
Azonia stood in the armourer’s workshop, naked except for a chain of fine silver and mithril links around her waist. Dennery knelt before her, minutely adjusting the links to fit. His breath was perceptible with a warm rush on her crotch, as he peered at the ornate metal shape just a few inches higher. The feeling she was more aware of, though, was a tingle of vibration every time the rings of chain maille clinked together on her hips.
Mithril resonated with the soul, of course, so every little vibration of those particular rings sent a thrumming vibration right through her being, and a flood of overwhelming emotion in its wake.
She recoiled and asked the armourer to stop when his hand brushed an all to intimate region of her inner thigh. She’d told herself that she would tolerate his gaze, if he could forge the armour that would let her save her people. But even so, she couldn’t bring herself to tolerate a touch like that.
His hand came up to the mithril rings holding a tuning fork, and he tapped first one ring then another with the vibrating tip. With the first gentle touch, she could hear the metal ring singing like a bell. She gasped with surprise as a wave of raw arousal washed over her. Then the second ring sang and the vibrations coursing through her soul were so intense that every mere physical sensation faded into the background.
“No!” she yelled desperately as he brought the still-humming tuning fork to waver teasingly between her thighs. “No,” she repeated, but it was her own eager thrusting that pressed the vibrating tines against her lips to prompt yet more quivers of pleasure. She yelped and gasped, trying to deny the craving from her body, but every wave of lust was stronger than the last.
Denerry struck the tuning fork again, generating a clear tone, and rested it against the buckle at the front of her chain belt. She knew this wasn’t what she’d asked for, but she wanted it so much right now. The inner voices protesting something different went straight to the back of her mind, while she found herself begging incoherently. She didn’t know if she wanted more, or wanted it it stop, but the alien urges flowing into her body felt so right that she couldn’t even think of fighting.
Azonia’s eyes flickered open, however many minutes or hours of hot, eager, breathless lust later. She was lying on the tiled floor, but the ground wasn’t cold. She realised that this artificer must have tricks for more than just armour up his sleeve.
“What… how…?” she couldn’t quite formulate the question she wanted to ask, but he seemed to understand.
“It’s one of the less well-known capabilities of mithril. Passion is an emotion, a frequency of the astral body just as love or pride are. There’s nothing impure or beastial about your carnal urges, they come straight from the soul.” She looked him up and down as he spoke. His body was surprisingly youthful, firm muscles under the loose tunic he wore for his work. Now, he was wearing just a smile. “I must admit,” he continued, “I was very curious whether it would work so well on a human. So many of your race can’t synchronise their bodies with mythril at all. So if it makes this any easier for you to justify to yourself, you can imagine that my curiosity was purely academic, and I was a scientist researching the differences between our two peoples.”
“Is that all you wanted, an experiment?”
“Well… he looked at the ground between them to answer again, “Not entirely.”
And with that fragile gesture of agreement, they continued to work on the armour. Over three weeks, she modelled for Dennery as he forged fragile metal links around her body. Sometimes he would touch her as he took measurements, and sometimes she would protest. Sometimes she wouldn’t, though. The tribe of Bien were a pragmatic people, and she saw no reason to refuse something that could feel so good if it was within the bounds of what this place’s strange moral code considered reasonable. Sometimes he would ask, and sometimes she would just feel the ringing of that tuning fork against the new rings on her shoulder blades, on her belt, or about her neck, and know that in a second she would be overwhelmed by obedience, or lust, or fear, or drunkenness, or laughter; whatever impulse he had chosen. If it was the cost of saving her people, she would tolerate such experiments with good grace. And with joy, she found more often than not.
A month later, she looked at herself in a silver-backed glass mirror, a much clearer image than the polished chrome the tribesmen were used to. She was, she had to admit, unimpressed. The complex necklace covered more skin than the thong on this outfit, and her breasts were cupped by pieces of woven chain little larger than her palm.
“What do you mean, is it good enough?” Azonia raged, “This is… underwear! Where’s the rest of it?”
“You know already,” the smith smiled, “Mithril and silver, channeling the soul of the metal into your own. As long as you wear it, fire will not harm you. If you wish it to preserve your modesty as well, I think you will need to earn some more mithril. I thought you wanted to get this made as quickly as possible?”
Azonia looked at herself again. If the armour protected her, then what more did she need? And she had to admit, it did make her toned muscles look impressive and highlight the pale smoothness of her skin. On the other hand…
“What would I have to do to earn some more? Just a little, you understand…”