"Then, when the World Tree was but a sapling, the heroine Araenila travelled through the lands, still in the grip of the Age of Dreams. Where she stepped, forests sprung from the land, which was new and still covered only in long grass. She travelled all the way to the source of the River that feeds the Cosmic Ocean where she saw Isiina, daughter of the Earth Mother, bathing at the River's Source.

'Away with you, noble Archer!' Isiina cried sadly. 'My heart burns for you as I know you burn for me, but it pains me to say that we could never lie in love together. One touch of my lips, and you will never take pleasure from kissing a mortal woman again, one caress of my breasts and you will never wish to feel another's heartbeat again, one taste of my sex and you will be driven to madness, for there will be nothing more that you will wish to taste...'"

- Excerpt from an Elven fairy-tale

"Easy, easy, easy, Min or there'll be pieces of us floating around the Spire." Shesayne warned, mentally activating the shimmering, translucent containment stone which floated over the pulsating artifact.

"How the hell do you know it's unstable?" The tiefling queried, very gently shifting the grotesque, alien item which very much resembled a vile fusion of a mollusc and a brain carved in sickly green stone.

"Pulsation, pulsation, pulsation." Shesayne replied didactically, she had the intuition for these things. She could feel the restlessness of the artifact's enchantment course through her. The half-elf could only hope that the containment stone did its job and prevented any further effusion of magical radiation.

"What do you reckon it is?"

"Mind flayer, probably, but why in the Nine Hells it was tossed down an underground reservoir is a secret even my brilliant mind struggles to explain." The dark-haired half-elf's movements were as full of nervous energy as Min's were languid and elegant. Shesayne's impish face always bore an energetic smile, as if there were always something vaguely amusing about life in general. Today was the exception to the rule, Min noted, as Shesayne seemed more pensive than usual. Pensive and Shesayne were not two concepts which had previously even remotely occupied the same thought in Min's mind.

Shifting the artifact slightly to one side, Min could ascertain that it had not fused with the cistern's surface. That was no consolation as they now stood at least twenty feet underground, in almost pitch blackness except for the faintly luminescent containment stone. The monstrous thing on the ground would have to be shifted at some point before the cistern could be filled again. Some sort of purification would also have to be arranged as the artifact had easily corrupted even the was quantities of water which had been contained around it, causing an outbreak of vividly unpleasant stomach disorders.

"How are we going to get this sodding thing out, then?" Min said in frustration. They always seemed to get the worst retrievals.

"Dunno, levitation, flight...cables and pulleys..."

"With a containment stone?"

"Probably not then...how about the same way we came in?"

"I'm not carrying that thing all the way up the ladder." Min protested.

"Not us, my linear thinking friend, now that the item is secured, we can send for support in the, uh, backbreaking labour department."

"That'll take ages." Min sighed. She had really wanted to go home as soon as possible for a quick wash and change before meeting Aerylle for dinner. But, there was the problem of Shesayne who had insisted on unloading herself - all her troubles, frustrations and obsessions included - in Min's already extremely cramped bedsit. Worst of all, though Shesayne was slender and compact, she moved constantly in her sleep, stirring in an endless sequence of incomprehensible dreams and very much irritating Min to the point in which she had strongly desire not only to dump the petite half-elf out of the bed, but out of the window as well. Sleep was to Min the most sacrosanct of institutions. Disturbing her whilst immersed in deep sleep was akin to eating her freshly-excised liver in the scale of execrable acts.

"Why are you in a hurry? Something essential, indispensable for you to attend to?" Shesayne provoked, her rapid-fire singsong delivery aggravated Min to no end when it was used to stir up arguments. Which was, after all, Shesayne's hobby.

"Yes, now that you mention it."

"So has she whipped you, trained you into shape yet? I bet you're enjoying all the silver knives and crystal goblets."

"You're one for sarcasm today." Min said, like yesterday and the day before, she thought.

"Well, truth be told, it looks like it's shaping up fine, running on excellent." Though the half-elf was almost incapable of envy, she could but cross-reference Min's recently good spirits with her own difficulties.

"Yeah, she's nice. Sometimes a little stiff, but I'm working on that."

"I bet you are." Shesayne said, with a knowing smile which was broader than usual. Min, who had never been shy about her personal affairs with Shesayne had regaled the half-elf with enticingly detailed accounts of her romantic encounters.

"You'll never guess what she bought for me." Min said before resigning herself to dragging the artifact closer to the ladder which reached up towards the surface, from which only the tiniest shaft of light peered down into the cistern.

"What, what, what?" Shesayne's curiosity had definitely been alerted.

"I said guess."

"Flowers, jewellery, silverware, expensive wine, expensive perfume..."

"Try a skirt, all gauzy with some sort of plant pattern." Min said with some embarrassment.

Shesayne's mouth remained slightly agape, a incredulous smile forming on her lips, "Sod it, you're joking."

"Nope. It looks like she misses her extensive ceramic doll collection, or something, 'cause she obviously wants to dress me like one."

"Did you actually try it..." Shesayne could not suppress a soft, impish laugh, like silver chimes tinkling.

"No. Fucking. Way." Came Min's curt response.

"Hmm...get it all out now, because she'll definitely have a go at you for your, ah...colourful expressions."

"Yet another problem." Min said, mildly more preoccupied with how to shift the heavy carving out, up by the ladder.

"So, Lady Min, I wish you all the best of luck. Sounds like a marriage made in Elysium."

"That one's getting old and irritating, Shesayne." Min retorted between gritted teeth.

"Three hundred says you'll wear it."

"What!"

"Within, say, twenty days."

"Are you barmy? Who do you take me for?" Min was somewhat indignant, she thought Shesayne knew her better.

"Then it's an easy three hundred." Shesayne continued, hedging her bets on her intuition.

"Hmmm..." Min considered the proposition briefly. It was a standard month's salary, but she reckoned she had the willpower to carry her refusal through, "You're on."

"Right, three hundred with Tymora, Lady of Fortunes as our witness."

"I hope you actually have three hundred lying around." Min said sceptically, she had forgotten how many times she had to buy Shesayne lunch because the half-elf strapped even for a few coins.

"For you, sweetest, I'll find them." That, of course, was a lie, but Shesayne knew there was no chance whatsoever that she would lose.

***

Cirily was still thinking about Elyszara's torn dress as she laid out the main table in the spacious dining room of the attic apartment. With dextrous fingers, she effortlessly organised the symmetry of the plates and cups, her firre ancestry gave her a very keen eye for both visual and aural aesthetic detail. She immediately knew what could be considered beautiful though, in time, she had been forced to concede that there was something of a correlation between the beautiful and the valuable. If something was deemed valuable, even if it was a Howler-skull necklace, it became beautiful by definition, though only philosophically speaking and not by aesthetic merit.

To her, however, Elyszara was both valuable and beautiful, an unfortunate dependence that weighed heavily on Cirily's mind. Perhaps she would confront her beloved, there was almost certainly a perfectly rational explanation. Indeed, Cirily had no intention of coming across as paranoid, commanding or in any way cause discomfort. Elyszara could be highly strung enough as it was.

"How are our delightful little preparations going?" Elyszara inquired, sauntering in with her typically nonchalant grace. Much to Cirily's chagrin she was still wearing that godsforsaken indigo lip and nail paint. Combined with a flimsy white blouse and sheer, inky-black leggings, Cirily reflected that her lover looked like she was ready to join an assassin's guild.

"Fine, but you look like an alu-fiend."

"Oh come, it's supposed to be mysterious...and standing next to you, I could never be in bad taste." Elyszara said, her tone more seductive as she moved behind Cirily, running a hand up the hem of the flame-haired aasimar's loose, copper-coloured dress.

"You always get off too easily," Cirily began, her voice breathless as her blood quickened under Elyszara's expert caress. She felt her nipples begin to peak uncomfortably under the silky consistency of the dress, the friction of her engorged flesh against the smooth-woven fabric was becoming intolerable, "please tell me you'll wear something more respectable tomorrow."

"All to complement your extraordinary cuisine, my dearest." Elyszara said as she kissed her lover's shoulder. "I had Harys send out the invitations today, nothing too fancy, just a little get together for some refreshing socialisation."

"I thought you only said us plus five." Cirily said suspiciously.

"What fun would there be in that, I told them to bring guests."

"Do you ever think of anyone but yourself?" Cirily snarled, irritated that she was effectively being asked to be cook and caterer at the same time. Elyszara was allergic to any duty so menial as helping out in the kitchen or laying the table.

"Occasionally," Elyszara said maliciously, her hand now under Cirily's dress, cupping the girl's sex.

"You always get off too easily..." Cirily's voice trailed off as she leaned forward on the table, her sex already moist and aching in reaction to the provocation of her lover's knowing fingers. Elyszara knelt behind her. As Cirily felt her beloved's tongue dance and glide wherever its whim took it, she realised that, despite the mounting tension between her thighs and the fire in her hips, she could not quite get that shimmering dress out of her mind.

***

I'll kill her. Syf thought to herself standing by a spartan, wooden desk in the modest temple library of the Order of the Radiant Path, It's not a crime of passion, it's a crime of frustration. But I'll kill her, it won't take long, just one thrust of the sword between her breasts and it's over.

The paladin was contemplating the elaborately written invitation letter Elyszara had sent. If this was not some sort of perverse provocation, she did not know what was. Syf's sword hand felt like gripping something. This turmoil, of course, was relegated to Syf's mind because her cool, commanding exterior betrayed no outward signs of emotion. Her piercing, blue eyes remained calm, but behind them, her brain was in ferment. If she was had been invited, then so had Friyya. This setup had the potential, Syf thought, to be the single most difficult situation she had ever encountered, trials and combat included. And by far the most unpleasant. To cap it all off, she had a residual, nagging headache from the bottle of tough, tannic Mareterran wine she and Marséna had shared the previous evening.

Of course, Syf did not wish Elyszara ill will as such, but her relationship with Friyya was by far and away the most important thing in her life outside of service to the Order. Of course, a moralist could point out that it was Syf who had strayed in the first place. A firm "no" the first time would have been all that was required to prevent this situation and all its awkward, painful and humiliating corollaries. That moralist, Syf concluded, had clearly never had Elyszara's soft, sensual lips kissing down her throat, whilst agile, slender fingers unbuttoned her blouse, slowly and expertly so that the fabric scraped ever so slightly against stiffening nipples...Syf surreptitiously bit down on her lip, but made sure it was hard enough to jerk her back to the present situation.

To be sure, she was a paladin and ought to have reflected the virtues embodied by her Order which, in the Founding Axioms, certainly underscored the importance of fidelity and self-control. But, for all her disciplined, controlled exterior, Syf was also human - too human. Anyone, of course, could err once. Syf never considered herself a saint, but the operative word there was once. Ideally, she would have explained the situation to Friyya after the first time, taken her distances from Elyszara and hoped in the forgiveness of her beloved. Of course, in an ideal world, their order would not even have to exist and Syf, paradoxically, feared Friyya's rage more than the embarrassment of discovery.

The mess would be cleaned up, though, Syf meditated, the initial anger at receiving the invitation subsiding, and though Elyszara would probably escape without a longsword to the chest, whether Syf herself would be that lucky was still anyone's guess. From the corner of her eye, Syf spied Marséna approaching from amongst the rows of desks.

"Something's vexing you?" Marséna chimed and Syf gave her the satisfaction of pretending to have been surprised.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, that silly girl keeps sending these invitations when she knows we're not supposed to be out of Quarters after curfew." Syf lied. It was something she normally hated doing which, rationally speaking, was a shame because her cool, collected exterior would have made her a very good pathological liar indeed.

"Come on, it'll be great, she has relatives in high places apparently, there shouldn't be any trouble if we're discreet."

"Her mother, apparently." Syf specified emotionlessly.

"I think it would be an excuse to unwind a little."

"I think it would be an excuse for you to drink too much."

"You are so cynical, cease never to have faith in your fellow woman." Marséna said with affected grandiloquence.

"I should be going to mess hall for lunch, care to join me?" Syf inquired, eager to change the subject.

"Always." Marséna assented, smiling as she led the way through the maze of desks.

Following the Mareterran out, Syf could not help but detect - or imagine? - the slightest sway in the paladin's hips and the perfect curve of her bottom, every bit as perfect as the rumours held, only slightly concealed beneath the skirt of the simple brown-bordered green tunic, secured with a leather belt, which all paladins of their junior rank wore as off-duty uniforms. Syf tried to seize back control of her wandering mind: rationally, Friyya fulfilled every single one of her desires and did so with impeccable style. She did not even have to tell her lover what she preferred because Friyya had apparently perceived it from the first time they made love. In the end, Syf decided, it was matter of being simple, fallible flesh and blood.

The mess hall was overrun with novices, distinguished by their white tunics, a fact that lifted Syf's spirits a little. She enjoyed the blanket of awe and fear which she extended over the paladins-in-training. All thanks to her merciless fencing drills, soon, Syf plotted, she would have the same presence and impact as Isobel. It was only a matter of time.

They took plates of steaming soup - which Marséna immediately complained was bland - and loaves of black bread - which Marséna had categorically never touched since coming to the Order, claiming it was unfit for human consumption. Not that Marséna was picky, unlike Friyya, but she really did not see why the kitchen didn't at least make an effort to add some herbs, some walnut or olive oil, or even a little goose fat to make things vaguely more edible.

"You're staring at my ass, aren't you?" Marséna knowingly said as they searched for a quiet spot down one of the long communal tables which ran the length of the mess hall.

"Hold you tongue in front of the novices." Syf snarled.

"I don't blame you, I was once told by a painter from Mareterra that I had a such a classical figure that I needed to be painted. You, on the other hand, sometimes I think you're a man born in a woman's body."

"Don't be foolish." Syf said, immediately regaining her composure as they sat down. Before she had joined the order, Syf had always enjoyed physical pursuits: running, wrestling and mock fencing. Taller than most of the boys, human or otherwise, she had always quickly earned immediate and unconditional respect. Nevertheless, Syf had never forgotten for a moment that she was a woman and certainly did not need to braid her hair, paint her nails or wear silk to confirm it.

"I'm joking, Syf, our work would be much easier if more women were like you." In reality Marséna admired Syf - her cool, piercing eyes, those noble, commanding features. When Syf became Syf the Instructor, then she was like a martial statue, but when she smiled, or patiently stood guard when one of her sisters was ill or injured, then Marséna thought her positively radiant.

"What about a fencing bout, later?" Syf probed, tearing a hunk out of her loaf of bread. She could afford to be prodigal, she would have Marséna's soon as well.

"By all means. There was a lesson I was hoping to teach you." Marséna picked at her soup. There were day in which, by necessity, contraband was her only form of nutrition.

"Keep hoping. You aren't eating anything, you should take some food if you want to last more than few strokes."

"How can you actually eat this?" Marséna asked in disgust.

"Food is food."

"No," Marséna corrected, "food is my mother's bread and cheese dumplings, fried in goose fat with crushed tomatoes and maybe some reheated blood sausage on the side." Had the memory been any more vivid, her mouth would have begun to water.

"Let's not get into this argument again." Whenever Marséna went down that route, Syf was almost grateful for her soup.

***

Syf remained where she stood, doubled over and panting, still not entirely aware of what had transpired, but under the impression that she had won. Isobel was quick to disabuse her, "You too," she growled, slapping Syf with the palm of her hand with such force that the novice could no longer feel half her face, "you don't decide when you win, I tell you if you win. Now disappear before I give you the thrashing of your life." Syf complied, still dispassionate, though her piercing eyes fixed Isobel with burning resentment.

"Say, Min, you don't happen to have a couple of Marks for some bread and honey?" Shesayne queried anxiously as she and her tiefling friend sat down for an afternoon snack at a market stall. A crowd of humans, demihumans, fiends and celestials milled around.

"You know, I asked whether you had any money whatsoever and, as usual, you haven't got any." Min complained. But she had to make her way home soon if she was going to meet Aerylle in good time - knowing full well that the grey elf was a stickler for punctuality.

"C'mon Min, I promise, my word and honour, that you'll get the money if you win." Shesayne pleaded.

"Fine, fine." Min conceded as she flagged down a serving maid for an additional order.

"So, how's Her Majesty treating you?" Shesayne said with ironic reference to Aerylle.

"Actually, I haven't felt this good in a long time. She fills me, in a strange way, but she just keeps growing on me."

"There you are, you always said you'd never find someone you could stick to, need or love. Got her now, don't you?"

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves." Min cautioned as Shesayne's bread and honey arrived. Predictably, the half-elf also quickly ordered a half-flask of sweet wine, just quickly enough for Min to be unable to object,

"Anyway," the tiefling continued, "how's it with you and your good lady knight?"

"I don't know," Shesayne confessed, resigned and frustrated at the last few days, Marséna had simply not had the slightest patience for her, "she just doesn't want to hear me out. I think she has hang-ups, issues or something like that. Whatever I say, she becomes more mysterious or more distant, as if I could never understand what was bothering her." Though she and Marséna had begun their relationship almost on the spur of the moment - more specifically at the victory celebrations of a mission which had involved both the Order of the Radiant Path and Shesayne's company - the paladin had almost always seemed distracted, even distant.

"Why don't you just go home to her, put on that little red dress of yours and make up?" Min asked, poaching a piece of Shesayne's bread. As far as the tiefling was concerned, it was always best to eat something before going out to dinner with Aerylle because, inevitably, the more she ate the more vulgar she looked in the eyes of the grey elf.

"I'd like to, I'd like to so much it hurts." Shesayne conceded. Meeting Marséna had been by far the most interesting thing that had happened to her in the recent past. The paladin had all the reassuring strength Shesayne needed - a stable point of reference in an otherwise disorganised and aimless life. It turned out, however, that Marséna had weakness, issues and complications of her own. Everyone brought weighty baggage with them, Shesayne mused, what Marséna had shown her so far was, no doubt, just the tip of the iceberg.

"Then go, since when are you anything less than impulsive?" Min had no intention of getting bogged down into a long drawn out conversation about Shesayne's victimisation. She had taken her fill of that last night.

"Because she's always got something, or somebody, else on her mind. You know, I actually think she's still pining for that Virginia bitch." Shesayne said bitterly.

"If you go on like that, you'll end up almost as cynical as me." Min quipped, though it was a shame to see the normally buoyant Shesayne mired in self-pity. Just another of her mood swings, the tiefling supposed.

"Anyway, I can't go in there pretending I'm the culpable-at-fault-party. What if she imagines she's with Virginia when we're..."

"That would take quite a bit of imagining." Min interrupted.

"Look, you get the point. I think something's died in her the last few days."

"All good things..." Min began before deciding to be uncharacteristically sensitive, "you'll kick yourself afterwards if you don't at least try to patch things up. Then if it all goes to sod, you can always use my room."

"You won't be home, though, I imagine-presume."

"No." Min said with almost heavenly relief, "You'll have the place all to yourself."

***

Syf returned to her quarters tired but immensely satisfied with a disappointed Marséna in tow; she had won the bout, as usual, but marginally enough, as usual, for her opponent to vociferously demand a rematch. It had almost become a ritual between the two. On those occasions in which Marséna did win, Syf was likewise granted first priority the next time they enjoyed free practice.

"I need a bath." Marséna said curtly, her misjudgement in parrying one of Syf's more insidious blows still tormenting her.

"Oh come on, don't be such a sore loser, better luck next time." Syf teased, stealing a quick kiss from Marséna's cheek.

Muttering darkly in Mareterran, Marséna withdrew to the bathing chamber. Her mood significantly lightened, Syf walked to her bedchamber door only to find it locked. That could only mean one thing.

"Friyya, when will you grow up? Open the door!" It had been a long duel and Syf really needed some rest.

"You know I can't." Friyya objected, her voice plaintive as if she were ashamed of her compulsion.

"Friyya, I'm tired and I personally guarantee there is absolutely nothing that I have not seen before or, for that matter, many times."

"You know it's not that Syf..."

Syf leaned forward heavily against the door, a long sigh of resignation escaping her lips. Friyya - the vain, obsessive compulsive Friyya which regrettably came as part of the package - hated being watched when she tried clothes on. Syf could dress her and undress her all she wanted, but never interrupt the solitude of selecting an outfit. This sort of hysteria, Syf imagined, was what gave all women a bad name in some cultures.

"Friyya," Syf began slowly, "you are truly unique in your ability to test my patience." The key then clicked in the lock and Syf gratefully stepped in.

"Well..." Syf had started with the impression that she was going to talk about putting Marséna's disorderly fencing style in its place, but the apparition of Friyya in a silky autumn-orange dress caused the dark-haired paladin's tongue to cleave to the roof her mouth. Tastefully low cut, with short sleeves and slit down the whole, delectable length of Friyya's pale thigh, the dress was doubly impressive because it coyly highlighted the woman's figure: there was no artificial support so it flowed freely, like a breeze which naturally caressed the sublime contours of the body.

"Well what?" Friyya queried, feigning innocence as she pushed Syf back against the door and locked it again.

At that point, Syf realised that rest of any description was, in the short term, out of the question. "I am your slave when you wear that." Syf began, gasping softly and despite herself as Friyya's lips busied themselves down her neck, the auburn-haired girl's tongue reaching to lick teasingly down the hollow of Syf's throat.

"I should wear it more often." Her fingers skilfully unbuttoned Syf's tunic, revealing her small, gracefully firm breasts, pink nipples stiffening at the mere promise of further attention from Friyya's tongue.

"You aren't seriously going to put it on...ah!" Syf's question was cut off by the delectable sensation of Friyya's lips wetly clamping down on one of her exposed nipples. Friyya replied by applying gentle pressure with her tongue against the engorged little peak, lavishing its sensitive surface with teasing licks. Syf felt heat like electricity between her thighs, her skin felt hypersensitive, reactive to every single expert touch by Friyya's able fingers. Sliding a hand between Syf's thighs, under the hem of her tunic, Friyya found hot, musky wetness. Friyya trailed lower, her tongue sliding down Syf's taut, muscular belly as she undid the tunic, inch by inch. Then, she finally loosed the entire garment, letting it fall to the floor. Syf stood naked but for her boots, her eyes almost delirious with desire.

Friyya knelt in front of her, ravishing in that godsforsaken dress, a smile on her richly sensuous, painted lips, "Have you returned victorious?"

"You could say so." Syf sighed, stroking Friyya's silky, autumnal tresses. The honeyed eroticism of her love's voice made her sex tighten with anticipation.

"Then this is your reward." Friyya's said huskily, her lips kissing Syf's sex with burning passion, her tongue eagerly probing, parting the sodden folds with great ease. There, beneath the crown of soft, raven-black curls, was a soft, moist heaven - pink and musky, heavy with pearly dew. Syf, Friyya thought, had rarely been this excited - normally she was collected, and very efficient, even in their lovemaking, but in that particular moment, there were no limits to her arousal. Whimpering almost inaudibly, Syf thrust her hips further towards Friyya's infuriatingly sensual mouth - she was embarrassingly wet and even the dark curls which ringed her sex were flecked with her nectar.

Friyya, though, was irresistible, her beautiful face was fully concentrated on Syf's sex, eyes closed, letting her tongue and lips guide her through those familiar, deliciously saline folds, each spot receiving careful, loving attention. Syf just hoped that she wouldn't slam too loudly against the door when she came. It would have been unbecoming. As would have been the sharp cry she was on the verge of emitting as Friyya's tongue began to concentrate on the hard, glistening pearl of her clitoris, with two pale, delicate writer's fingers holding the petals of the raven-haired paladin's sex open. Syf could only grit her teeth and clasp Friyya's head in her hands, fingers sliding through those magnificent tresses of burnished gold.

The sheer potency of her climax became evident to Syf only when Friyya teasingly, maliciously began to work two fingers into her sex. The auburn-haired paladin's digits almost splashed in, mercilessly caressing the swollen inner flesh of Syf's innermost sanctum. Syf had molten lead in the pit of her belly, the tension in her sex winding up tighter and tighter with each teasing little stroke of Friyya's tongue on her clit. Then it unwound itself in the flash of release, Syf taking a few long, deep, strangled breaths, her sex contracting spasmodically against Friyya's fingers, a radiant feeling of utter relaxation flooding her limbs.

Friyya rose to her feet languidly to face Syf, "Look at what you've done to my lips." Friyya said in mock irritation, referring to slight smudging of her rouge.

"What a shame...I think I should be responsible for cleaning it up, then." Syf growled as she seized Friyya, holding the smaller girl's waist firmly in her hands as she began to use her tongue to gently lick around Friyya's lips, cleaning away all the traces of her own, richly musky nectar from her lover's face. Syf took the opportunity to seize back the initiative, leaning into Friyya to kiss her passionately before quickly divesting herself of her boots and lifting her lover onto their bed with consummate ease.

Squealing in surprise, Friyya was quickly silenced by a renewed assault by Syf's lips, which kissed with smouldering intensity. Syf reached under the silky smooth material of the dress, feeling her way up the familiar path of Friyya's long, supple thigh to finally come to rest against the downy auburn patch on her lover's sex. Pressing her own sex against one of Friyya's milky thighs, Syf effortlessly slipped two fingers between her lover's silky nether lips and began an undulating, thrusting motion. Each time she penetrated the blossoming flower of Friyya's pussy, Syf could hear the girl moan softly into her ear - spurring her onwards.

The thin, flimsy material of the saffron-orange dress easily brushed aside under Syf's free hand to reveal the perfection of beautifully rounded, statuesque breasts capped by turgid, pink nipples. Syf devoured them with her eyes, tongue and lips, her senses entranced by the soft, sharp gasping rhythm of Friyya's breathing, the slightly sweet taste of her freshly washed body, the flawless pearl-like quality of her skin which at the very peak of her breasts gave way to nipples like strawberries ripe for the plucking and sweetly yielding between her lips.

Thrusting herself with passionate determination against Friyya, Syf found herself fascinated by the delicious contrast of textures against her skin: the hot wetness of Friyya's pussy, tight yet pliant against her fingers, the relatively cool softness of her thigh against her own yearning nether lips, and the amazing consistency of the dress which caressed like the lightest of human fingers. Friyya finally surrendered herself to her passion, coming with a tight, inchoate cry which burst out of her throat, hips bucking frantically against Syf's hand. Her cries became louder still as Syf maliciously grated her teeth against one of Friyya's painfully engorged nipples, accentuating the roiling pleasure the auburn-haired paladin felt flowing out from her sex. Syf thrust her sex against her lover's thigh a little longer, leaving hot, wet trails and reveling in Friyya's last, thrilling little cries.

Syf set herself atop Friyya, head resting between her lover's breasts, her short, ink-black hair spread like a shadow over the paleness of the skin beneath it and the vivid orange of the dress. Syf gathered her breath and her thoughts. She had just felt proof of the stupidity of her recent actions, of the profound irrationality of that Elyszara business. Irrational because, as far as Syf was concerned, the world could have ended in that moment and she would have gone to her final rest the happiest soul in the Multiverse. She knew, however, that she would be a fool to imagine that the solution to the problem would be brief or painless.

"You see, my love, that's the beautiful thing about this dress," Friyya began, her voice still caught in the dreamlike state she often lapsed into after making love, "it allows intimacy without it ever needing to be taken off."

Glad that Friyya had changed the subject for her, Syf repeated her earlier reservations, "Maybe you should think twice about wearing that particular dress...you know, outside."

"Are you accusing me of immodesty?" Friyya asked jokingly, running a hand through Syf's hair.

"No, but an over-garment may be a good idea."

"What, you want to cover me up? You're so boring sometimes, I know you're going to turn up tomorrow in your dress uniform."

"Not everyone has relatives in the planar trade business."

"I hope you won't hold that against me for the rest of my life." Friyya said wearily, "I wasn't exactly spoiled as a child."

"You're right, I am sorry." Syf had perhaps gone too far. Though Friyya's family was fairly affluent, her childhood had been, to put it euphemistically, difficult.

"One of the main reasons for me accepting to join the Order was to escape."

"I know." Syf said, placing an apologetic kiss on Friyya's breast.

"You still don't wear that pendant I gave you." Friyya sighed, thinking of the amount of time, much of it in contravention of the Rule of the Order, she had spent looking for the right sort of garnet stone to complement Syf's hair and complexion.

"You're being foolish again. It would be a liability in battle and if I lost it in the heat of the fighting I would never forgive myself." That, Friyya thought, was the spartan, thrifty Syf who disliked all cosmetics, jewellery, and 'worthless accessories', sometimes even complaining that Friyya was well in excess of the sumptuary limits on non-uniform clothing allowed by the Radiant Path.

"You're not being very romantic." Friyya complained, idly stroking her lover's cheek.

"I think that has always been obvious enough." Syf commented; she loved deeply, but did not enjoy superficial effusions. Friyya, in Syf's view, however, was still caught up in a world of literary courtship, ritual and romance the details of which escaped Syf, who felt that she had more important things to do than contemplate any kind of literature, let alone the flowery, fictional type.

"I really wish you'd soften up from time to time, you're beginning to scare the novices."

Excellent. Syf thought with much self-satisfaction, "I really wish you hardened yourself a little."

"What for? Everyone knows I'm going to end up teaching doctrine to the novices." Friyya said bitterly. With Isobel resolutely against her, there was very little she could do without Syf's constant and insistent endorsement of her skills which, if somewhat deficient in terms of swordsmanship, were well above average in the arts of healing and divination.

"Not as long as I live. Despite what Isobel says, healing and restoration are just as important as destroying evil. That philosophy is what separates us from most other militant orders: we acknowledge the importance victory in battle only as a means to lasting peace."

"You read that last bit out of my notes, didn't you?" Friyya teased, running the tip of her finger down Syf's lips.

"I think I must have at some point. But that is precisely what I was saying. We need each other."

"In the beginning," Friyya noted, "it was I who wanted you."

************

In the beginning it had been flattering. Now, however, Friyya reflected, it was positively unhealthy. Every time she returned from training or lessons, Marséna would rush into the cubicle, separated from the others by a white curtain, which housed their bunk beds and call out mockingly, "You're being courted again, my fair donaisela. What are you doing with us lowly novices when you should be up in the palace?"

"Why have you never courted me, don't you find me beautiful?" Friyya asked suddenly, seeking to relieve her curiosity.

*************

Marséna rose from her bath, still irritated at the perfunctory mistake she had made in her bout with Syf. That was Syf's advantage, she was simply more consistent, more concentrated and more focused. That said, Marséna was convinced that some day she would learn all of the other woman's tricks and then...Draping a white bathing shawl over her shoulders, Marséna made her way back to her room. There she could dry her hair with the attention it deserved. As she pushed open her bedchamber door, she was not especially surprised to find Shesayn lying on the bed, waiting for her - the petite half-elf was flighty enough to come and go as she pleased, but that irreverent rootlessness which had been charming in the beginning had begun to grate in recent times.

What did, however surprise the Mareterran paladin was that Shesayne wore only that sheer red dress with a heart shaped bodice woven in the pattern of dragonscales, and flimsy, almost transparent, but voluminous vermillion skirt. That had been the dress which had first drawn Marséna's eye; the dress which had drawn her into a lighthearted, pleasantly aimless conversation which came as such a relief after the agony of Virginia's indecision. The chatting had turned to flirting - Marséna had been impressed by the half-elf's energy, her streamlined yet feminine body, the irascible, impish curiosity which burned in those striking eyes.

It was the eager, yet slightly saddened look in Shesayne's eyes that made Marséna's disposition soften. She was clearly, and despite everything, in need of her lover, but so fearful of disappointing. "You know me so well," Marséna admitted, allowing herself a smile, "a little relaxation is exactly what I needed."

"Long, difficult, disappointing day?" Shesayne queried, cocking her slightly to one side, that impish grin Marséna found so endearing lighting up her face again.

"Yeah. But I wouldn't say it's a lost cause." Marséna dropped her bathing shawl to the ground, her long, corvine hair was still dripping, the droplets flowing down her olive skin in tiny streams. She approached the bed and knelt on it in front of Shesayne, her soulful brown eyes contemplating her lover.

"I have another surprise, treat and present for you." Shesayne said, stroking a carved ebony box she had left near the pillow - her voice was had a natural musical quality to it, like tinkling windchimes.

"Oh you didn't..." Marséna began, feeling her anticipation grow.

"Yes, yes, but only for you my dearest." Shesayne said.

Marséna could only sink gratefully into the slender half-elf's arms, kissing those deep red lips hungrily, seeking solace in the warmth of the girl's mouth. Shesayne sighed to herself, Marséna's damp body was on top of her now and she could smell the typical citrus perfume her lover always wore, so sharp, yet sweet and fresh. The half-elf's dextrous hands, so fast and skilful, delicately traced the generous curve of Marséna's swaying breasts, light brown nipples hardening enticingly under Shesayne's touch. Kissing lower, lips fervent and passionate, Marséna began to slowly unwrap Shesayne, untying the deep crimson bodice with short, expert strokes of her fingers before letting the top part of the garment fall away, revealing firm, perfectly rounded breasts which, when liberated, where not quite as small as suggested by the half-elven girl's skintight outfits. Shesayne let out high, tight little gasps with each stroke of Marséna's patient tongue against her breasts, and with each gentle suckling motion of the Mareterran's fervid lips against her nipples, pointed in excitement.

With the utmost care, Marséna undid the final clasp at the waist of Shesayne's dress, letting the vermillion skirt fall away as if it were air, revealing slender, athletically toned thighs. Shesayne's sex was hairless, as befitted her elven ancestry, but her figure, though petite, belied surprising strength and flexibility. Now free to press her body against her lover, Marséna felt the water begin to dry on her heated flesh; she could feel the tantalising gliding motion of Shesayne's able hands brushing the tiny droplets away from her breasts and bottom. Shesayne adored exploring Marséna's curves, to feel the harmonious juxtaposition of firm muscle with feminine softness.

"You still have to take out your present." Shesayne provoked, her body burnt in a nexus of passion on the inside, yet was cooled from its feverish heat by the moisture of Marséna's skin and hair.

"Right away." The raven-haired paladin obliged, sitting up for a moment to flip the ebony box open. Shesayne seized the opportunity to ensnare the engorged, light brown peak of one of Marséna's nipples, her tongue working with the same dynamic intensity as her fingers. Inside the box, Marséna found one of Shesayne's countless little toys; a thick, smooth red dido with a root-like structure at its base.

"I hope you've gained some practice-training from the last few times." Shesayne said, her voice filled with lustful anticipation. Marséna leaned back a little and swept some unruly, midnight-black tresses from her face. She swiftly worked the root part of the shaft into the hungry lips of her sex, already copiously moistened with nectar, feeling the enchantment of the object take effect, the root connecting and spreading into the flesh and nerves of her sex, building little sympathetic links deep inside the paladin's core. Shesayne reclined back on the pillow and watched the scene with amusement, the impish smile never leaving her face. Teasingly, she ran a delicate foot between the valley of Marséna's breasts, enjoying the feeling of their taut buoyancy, before sliding her toes with the utmost fluidity, up the paladin's throat.

"Impatient are we?" Marséna smiled as she felt the wand take root in her. She seized Shesayne's errant leg and firmly placed to one side, spreading her lover's sex for her, opening up the pink hothouse flower of the half-elf's dripping nether lips.

"For you, very." Shesayne said, lifting her hips slightly to invite the paladin closer to the molten core of her sex.

"Sorry," Marséna began awkwardly as she tried to position herself to enter Shesayne, "I still...need to get used to this."

Shesayne giggled softly as she wrapped her legs around Marséna's waist before clasping the dildo in her hands, those long, dextrous fingers exerting a firm, wrenching pressure. Marséna groaned, it was as if Shesayne's hands had wrapped around the inflamed bud of her clitoris and were stoking the fire in her loins, spurring the wetness which now moistened her nether lips, nestled beneath the fringe of raven-black curls around the paladin's sex.

"Goddess!" Marséna sighed as Shesayne applied a gentle, tugging pressure on the shaft, drawing her hands up and down, fingernails scraping ever so lightly on the red surface of the olisbos. "Easy or I won't be able to control myself much longer."

"That's not a problem." Shesayne said lasciviously, tugging the dildo closer to the pouting lips of her pink sex.

Marséna felt as though she was on the verge of reaching her climax immediately as the head of the shaft gently parted the sodden lips of Shesayne's sex, the shaft travelling effortlessly deep into the half-elf's hungry, aching canal.

"Now make love to me as if it was your last time." Shesayne invited. The dildo had stretched her sex as far as she thought possible and every single motion which Marséna made with Shesayne impaled on her felt like an electric stab deep in her loins, as if the universe had become focalised on the juncture between her sex and the shaft. The paladin happily obliged Shesayne, beginning a tentative thrusting motion, each time the surface of the shaft tugging at the half-elf's nether lips, each thrust filling Marséna's sex with a new burst of blinding-white pleasure, accompanied by a soft, satisfied cry liberated from the paladin's sensually parted lips. Starting to build up a rhythm, Marséna thrust forwards further and deeper, propping herself with arms on either side of her lover's belly, her mouth now burning on hungry on Shesayne's to silence her delightful, girlish cries which filled the air each time her sex was brought into full bloom by the insistent thrusting of the dildo.

Burying herself hard and frantically with each thrust, Marséna began to lose track of time or her surroundings, all was now the burning wetness of her sex, with all its pent up tension building at the base of the shaft, and the indescribable feeling of Shesayne's own womanhood conveyed directly into her. Marséna felt every single contraction, every single tense moment in which Shesayne's hips bucked, wanting ever deeper and harder penetration.

Knowing herself to be on the verge of a sublime climax, Shesayne clasped the perfect cheeks of Marséna's bottom in her hands, drawing the paladin in, gasping spasmodically as she felt her sex contract along the invader, her cries of pleasure silenced by the hunger of the Mareterran girl's lips. Shesayne's orgasm told Marséna that she too, could now release the tension which had wound itself tight in her loins. Thrusting with wild abandon, feeling Shesayne squirm in mixed pain and pleasure beneath her led Marséna over the edge of the precipice.She bit down on the half-elf's sensitive ear, howling her passion in long, ragged breaths as she felt the pressure of heat and liquid which had built between her thighs released down the shaft and into the depths of her sex, flooding her with limb-loosening relief.

Shesayne sobbed breathlessly against Marséna's shoulder, allowing her lips to trail between the paladin's abundant breasts, "I missed this, I missed this so much."

It was only when she had fully recovered from her climax, still feeling the molten stickiness of Shesayne's sex around the shaft, still sensing the pebble-hard nipples pressed against her own breasts, that Marséna realised that her lover was weeping.

"Shesayne..." Marséna could simply not find the correct words, she merely chose to cling tightly to her lover, to feel this profound, visceral pain which, in spite of all their difficulties, she wished could simply be communicated so that they could be at peace.

"I would like to love you, but you don't love me." the little half-elf whimpered.

"No, please, don't say that." Marséna pleaded, holding Shesayne's trembling form close.

"Do you know...do you know how much it hurts to show myself like this, in this condition? I don't need this, I don't deserve this and you don't deserve to put up with me like this." Shesayne said through her tears, her sobs calming down a little.

"You know I love you."

"Yes, but you love her more." The half-elf's nails dug painfully into Marséna's back.

"My life's a fucking mess," Marséna admitted, "in the last few days I've managed to offend you and Virginia and Friyya; all the people I can't live without. But I know this, whatever the situation is I know that I adore being with you, joking with you, making love to you...when I found you here, I knew that you had made my day."

"But I need a life, I need stability, reference..."

"Tonight," Marséna interrupted, "I need to fall asleep with you at my side and wake up with you smiling at me in the morning. Let's just take this one day at a time."

Shesayne just nodded, after all, she knew that she and Marséna both understood the pain of solitude.

"I've never been this forward or direct with anyone I've known so far, except maybe Min, but that's another story." Shesayne confessed as Marséna busied herself with tidying up the bed, neatly folding the half-elf's stunning dress so that it would not crease - a rare attention insofar as the paladin was concerned.

"I hate to see you suffer." Marséna said, drying the remaining moisture in her hair off a little, before sliding the ebony box beneath her mattress. Shesayne had insisted that she keep it.

"If we can be happy together, even for just a little while, it would be so much better than nothing."

Marséna nodded in agreement, "Will you come tomorrow, then, as my...companion?"

"Of course." Said Shesayne, her smile returning, "Now come here and tell me all about your day."

Marséna eagerly leaped into bed, clasping Shesayne tightly between her arms and planting gentle kisses down the length of one of the half-elf's softly delicately pointed ears, "Well, I made a stupid mistake in fencing practise today..."

***

"We should start an insomniac's club." Syf said dryly as she sat down at Marséna's side on the divan of the common room and took an almond and honey biscuit from embroidered box which the Mareterran paladin had received as a gift from her family.

"Yeah..." Marséna said absentmindedly, taking a substantial bite out of a biscuit, seeking relief in its familiar sweetness.

"I'm afraid of tomorrow." Syf whispered.

"What, the party?"

"Yes, I'm afraid tomorrow will be the last day of the rest of my life as I know it."

"Why?" Marséna asked, all of a sudden worried by the darkness of Syf's tone.

"One day, Marséna, I swear I'll tell you. I think you will hate me or curse me for it, but I'll tell you anyway and beg for you to forgive me."

"Syf, what's going on?" Marséna said, turning to face her friend.

"Life." Came the cryptic reply.

"Syf, whatever it is," Marséna began, remembering what Shesayne had said earlier, "I want you to know now that I love you, now and always."

"You don't need to tell me that...I know..."

"Yes, I do. Earlier this evening, I realised that I had failed in my duties as a friend and a lover. I took something for granted which I shouldn't have. Now I tell you that I don't want to fail in my duties as a sister and a friend."

"Marséna, you never have." Syf reassured.

"Then never despair, whatever happens, you can trust me to be on your side."

If only, Syf thought, her mind still agonised by the prospect of confession and exposure If only you knew what a complete worm I can be.