FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Deep in the darkness of the Underground, many strange creatures reside, which are nightmares to those who live above. While many kobolds clink away to expand their territory, they know little of the horrors beneath their claws.

For instance, the dark elves find their place in the hidden realms of the deep dark. Towering edifices hold up colossal caverns built over generations of slave labor. It is a mindbogglingly massive enormity to an outsider witnessing these marks of evil civilization.

Down in these deepest caverns, the world seems to sit still. The passage of time is an abstract concept, as the long-lived race that rules here is unphased by the passing of seasons and the changing of years. Their debauched world has been one of constancy and hierarchy.

But the one who sees the power in change seeks to bring it at whatever cost.

Sometimes, that cost is removing the old to make way for the new, and so on this day, much like any other day to the people of the deep dark, a new change is in order.

“What a ridiculous menagerie you’ve brought before me,” the mistress scowls at the half-dozen humanoid creatures presented. Each is bound by chains, stripped of all clothing, and left to kneel before her might. She paces before each one, stopping one by one and using her crop to prod and poke at their bodies. “The Grand Caravan can’t possibly think this is a good selection from the surface, can they?”

The gnoll trader growls, keeping a hand tightly clenched to the chains. “It would be wise of you not to badmouth your only connection to trade to the lands under the sun, elf.”

She sneers. “Oh, where do you get off thinking you can talk to me like that, you cur?” She says this while standing tall, her hand on her hip, tapping her crop upon her thigh. “Don’t you know who I am?”

“You’re a washed-up old crone,” the trader says, pulling from his sleeve a small stone. “And I have no more time to deal with you—goodbye.”

The stone flashes a bright light, blinding the dark elf. She stumbles, falls onto a shelf of collars and leashes and crashes against them.

Cursing her luck, she scrambles out of the predicament, hurling further curses toward the hyena man, only to realize that her voice echoes from uncaring walls.

She taps the floor with her boot, wiping the blurriness out of her vision. “What sorcery is this…?”

A clicking of heels behind her makes her whirl around, turning toward the entrance of this trader's room, gripping her crop tighter. “Who dares enter my domain!?”

The hooded figure's chuckle rises with a disdainful mirth to it. “Oh, this little pawn shop in the corner of a dead city is what’s left of your great slaver empire. What’s the matter, you can’t force your followers to fuck each other into breeding new stock for you anymore?” The figure kneels and brushes dainty fingers along the ground. “Sad because that was your favorite part of the process. Aside from breaking their spirits, of course, eh, Miselda?”

Miselda narrows her gray eyes, tensing up at the voice before her. “What do you know of my business? Who are you? State your house and your station.”

“Oh, I don’t have anything of that sort,” the figure chirps. “After all, such things are so old-fashioned. They are so pathetic. I’m my own woman now.”

“A stationless elf is the one who is pathetic!” She swings her crop at the figure, aiming towards the face.

But the attack passes right through the fabric instead of striking flesh. Her hand sticks to the cloak, and while she attempts to flick it off her, a tiny spider crawls out from underneath, aiming its spinnerets at the slaver’s face.

She gasps, only to be hit with the white gunk. She drops her crop, clawing at her face, but trips again on the broken shelving, falling onto her back.

That’s when the arachnid climbs, making quick work of her body and wrapping her up with such speed and precision that only a hunter trained over millions of years of evolution could muster.

Her struggles are futile, for she cannot breathe, but she can hear the chuckling from the figure. Where did they go? How did they disappear so fast?

She loses consciousness, a direct effect of the lack of breath.

—

When Miselda awakens, she is up against a wall, naked and spread-eagle and struggling under the thick and sticky silk that squishes up against her body. But her face is clear, and so is her vision, and before her, she sees the figure who had assaulted her.

She wears high heels and a white cape that billows from her revealing and gender-affirming outfit. Her hair is red and voluminous, billowing down to her shoulders, and her black and blood-red eyes stare like an insectoid horror, happy to find its prize.

Miselda frowns as she sees this woman, her eyes glancing down. Between her legs hangs a cock, accessible to the air, unashamed of its appearance. The slaver frowns, though something sparks into her eyes when she looks back at the woman.

“Who… are you…?”

“Don’t recognize me?” the mysterious woman asks, shaking her head. “Of course you wouldn’t. You don’t very much care for the discarded dregs of your slave pits, do you? You just chew and spit them out when you’re done, leaving them to dissolve, fester, and grow moldy.”

The mysterious elf approaches the slaver, bringing a finger over her cheek and down her jaw. “But, sometimes, one spits out something delicious, completely wasting what they could have been. I must thank you—your treatment of me created the great Zozafina.”

Miselda’s eyes widen. “Yuh… you? You’re the dark queen. You’re--”