“Moonless nights are hot, forest nights where nameless flowers bloom and trickle nectar and the air abounds with their forbidden, intoxicating perfume…”

- Excerpt from Travelogue of a Sorceress in the lands of the Sylvan Elves, a Grey Elven erotic novel

The drum beat echoed the languid beating of Min’s heart. On the elevated stage perched gloriously above the dining hall of the Shattered Sunray Emporium, a shamanistic ensemble of tawny-skinned Sylvan elves played on exotic instruments carved from gourds, vines and the sinews of vast, nameless beasts. The male drummer was bare-breasted and powerful as he leaned over his five long-bodied instruments, each two feet tall and arranged in a pentagonal configuration to emphasise the subtle distinction of the various pitches they produced. Two females were before him at the very edge of the stage: one knelt and clasped a bizarrely-shaped triangular stringed instrument, like a lute but pulled over three orange shells, the other, gloriously painted in red and blue so that her heavy, firm breasts resembled a sky at the approach of sunset, stood and played a long, curved flute, her eyes closed in sublime concentration.

On the dining hall floor, more slender and elegantly clothed Grey Elven serving-girls and bright-eyed cup-bearing boys did their rounds. The Shattered Sunray Emporium was a restaurant only in name. Situated in the lowest circle of the city, it occupied an old, vine-grown building at the very base of the Night Market. There, the earthier delights of gambling and suggestive dancing could be enjoyed by the numerous visitors to Imej who took little pleasure in the aesthetised pursuits of the Grey Elves. High, Sylvan and Wood Elves all mingled under the dim, spinning motes of faerie fire that cast a soft, opalescent glow over the great chamber. The smell of spiced wine, aromatic smoke and the mingling of a dozen different varieties of perfume, from the earthy to the floral, filled the chamber.

Min almost felt at home. She reclined back in her blue velvet upholstered armchair, arms casually crossed, her long, ember-red hair swept in front of her so that her opponent could not read the impassive expression on her face. Seven cards lay face down on the table before her while her opponent studied her every movement. Min noted that as a possible problem. She had entered into a wager over a magnificent Sylvan Elf hunting knife obtained from the incisor of a kirre-tiger with a teakwood pommel feathered with iridescent Dragonet plumes. Of course, its current owner was in no mood to surrender it. So there, in front of the tiefling, sat a strikingly fierce, midnight-haired Sylvan Elf huntress, her corded armour straining audibly with each movement. The huntress cut an intimidating figure: though not tall, her physique was powerful and compact, like a lynx, her biceps and bared thighs knotted with athletic muscle, her dark, bronzy tanned skin marred only a by a proud symphony of pale battle-scars that marked her out as a warrior of repute. Whenever she moved to scrutinise each corner of the gaming table, her ample, rounded breasts stirred alongside under the crimson-flecked surface of her armour, her black-painted lips curling in an oddly unsettling, predatory smile. Her features were elegant and Elven, yes, but infused with a wild and indomitable exoticism. Deep, chestnut-brown eyes, alert as if in the midst of an inhospitable jungle, peered first at Min, and then at the intricate, labyrinth-pattern on the back of the rectangular cards. Long, raven-black eyelashes batted once and then the huntress finally flipped over the first card.

Min bit her lip. She was uncomfortably excited. Her plump, swollen sex pressed almost painfully against the leather of her skintight, beige doeskin breeches. Her nipples stood turgid and proud, thrust lustily against the soft, grey fabric of her succinct top. The Sylvan Elf huntress had looked. Min was certain of it. The exotic woman’s feral gaze had trailed over each deft movement of Min’s arms, all the way to the hard, flat expanse of her bared midriff. She knew the Sylvan Elf knew she was wet. As a hunter, she could probably smell the pooling, creamy nectar between her thighs. Min bit her lip and watched the hard bicep flex as the huntress ran her fingers over the revealed card.

“Kjinttei,” the huntress said dispassionately and indicated for Min to raise her ante. The revealed card showed a constellation shaped vaguely like a cross in the night sky. Min did not understand any Elven language, but she had swiftly learned the relative importance of the cards just by watching and listening to the reactions of other players. This, however, was the first time she had decided to enter into the game herself. It was going to be a challenge. Kjinttei was an ambiguous starting point.

Min unhooked her coin purse and tossed it on the table. It landed with a soft tinkling sound of metal clashing against metal. The Huntress nodded and did not bother to count the coins. She was not so much interested in a material reward as she was in overcoming Min. The tiefling, with her sharply beautiful, yet entrancingly enigmatic features was like a quarry to her. Prey to be hunted and defeated – this time not with bow or spear, but with wits and initiative. The second card was turned over.

“Pehathara,” the huntress said, an ambiguous smile forming on her lips. It was the Southern Crown constellation. Surreptitiously, Min raised the lacquer bowl in front of her, with her hand shielding its contents so that the huntress could not see the array of green, red and blue glass beads she had drawn at the beginning of the game.

Min raised nine red beads and five blues, placing them on the newly revealed card. The huntress exhaled softly and countered by placing a handful of beads onto the Kjinttei card. “Selatha,” the tiefling predicted and, despite her accent, the huntress understood and nodded her assent. Min sat up and leaned forward. She felt a jarring spasm of pleasure deep in her loins. Her sex tightened and the juncture between her thighs felt like a slick, leathery swamp under her breeches. Her gaze met the huntress’ once more. There was fire in those deep, dark eyes. A fire and a distant drumbeat, like the one coming from the stage that now pulsed in rhythm with Min’s heart.

The huntress tilted her head almost imperceptibly. Min knew she knew. Min knew she could smell her, see it in the almost invisible deepening of the reddish tint of her pale skin. Most of all, Min knew that the huntress had taken a brief instant to contemplate the ruby-red nipples that scraped with agonising sensuality against the fabric of her top. Her sex felt like it was ready to burst, her clit was like a hot spearhead thrust between her labia. A low, keening whine followed as the ensemble on stage brought the musical piece to its pulsing, ancestral climax. Min watched the huntress wait. The Sylvan Elf leaned forward, as if she were waiting to pounce, her chin supported by her fist, while her free hand pressed firmly on the cool, black lacquer of her bead-bowl.

Min dipped a hand under the waistband of her breeches and touched heavy, swollen petals, rich with nectar. She flicked the third card over and left a trail of pearly juice on the surface of the Lamp constellation. “Uquesa,” Min noted. Her throat was dry, the blood ran thick in her veins.

“Tara,” the huntress countered and placed her remaining beads on the slick surface of the freshly revealed card.

“Win or lose,” Min whispered salaciously, tapping her boot against the hard muscle of the Huntress’ thigh. “It’d take you two moments to get your hand inside my cunt, tops.” It was liberating to be deliberately crude – she knew the Sylvan Elf could not understand her. What the dusky warrior did understand, though, was Min’s tone. The way those sultry ruby-red lips parted to mouth alien, forbidden words. A wry thought crossed the huntress’ mind. Min looked tough, experienced and handy with a dagger – would she play the girl for her? Or would they grind, tussle and take turns fucking until dawn? She certainly would not play the girl for Min. Even if her sex was tight with need, a huntress whose arms were scarred by Wyverns and whose thighs had been bitten by Sandbar Alligators was no-one’s toy.

“Aiteh!” the huntress said impatiently, motioning for Min to uncover the fourth card.

Min nodded and licked her forefinger clean. The huntress curled her toes reflexively over the polished wooden floor of the tavern. A silver-haired serving boy, wearing only a silk loincloth, passed by and offered myrrh-scented damson wine from a silver pitcher. She ignored him. Her eggshell-thin blue ceramic cup was still full. The Sylvan Elf warrior had not even wet her lips since meeting Min. A pregnant pause followed and all the huntress could do was bask in the incense aroma of Min’s skin, the leather of her boots and breeches and the thick, musky cinnamon scent of the tiefling’s ripe pussy.

Finally, Min flipped over the fourth card. It was the constellation of the World Seed. “Selatha,” Min purred and turned over the remaining three cards. Tara, the Celestial Wheel, was nowhere to be seen.

The huntress nodded approvingly. Min had probably read the shuffling of the cards better than she. Out of a deck of a hundred and twenty eight constellations, Min had managed a correct guess in the course of the first hand – a very unlikely event. That meant the tiefling had a uniquely observant eye, not to mention a taste for danger. So the huntress handed over the dagger, proffering it with both hands. Min accepted her spoils of victory and felt the item’s heft and weight in her hand. It was perfectly balanced, an excellent cutting weapon – a hunter’s pride.

“Tahlaith!” the Sylvan Elf warrior barked and drew her thumb sharply over the palm of her hand.

Min smiled enigmatically, wielded the dagger with lightning-quickness and cut a shallow wound on the palm of her hand. Coppery blood flowed painlessly in a light trickle. The huntress raised her hand in quiet approval. Weapons needed to be blooded, or the spirits bound therein could easily become offended by their new owner’s lack of commitment. On stage, the Sylvan Elf ensemble had left, only to be replaced by a lithe, nimble High Elf acrobat whose elegantly sculpted form entranced the audience as he engaged in a slow, sensually fluid dance. Wordlessly, the huntress rose and the intricately knotted, magically hardened cords of her armoured skirt fell around her thighs like a sweeping wall of iron-hard vines. Her muscular torso was framed perfectly by those taut cords. Doubtless, the armour had been custom-made for her and decorated with a wide array of red shamanistic symbols, each representing a successful quest. The huntress moved soundlessly, her bare feet gliding over the wooden floor as if it were but an extension of her humid, tropical home. Min tied the dagger to her waist and followed the Sylvan Elf warrior around to the veranda that looked out over the glowing fires of the Night Market. Sylvan Elf spices and the erotic, half-rotten smell of tropical fruit filled the air. Min intercepted a lithe serving boy and refilled her cup with steaming wine. The huntress looked out silently into the night and watched the stars crest on the horizon, suspended in a stream of milky ether that coursed through the night sky,

Sylvan Elves, like Wood Elves, Min concluded, did not like to be rushed. She drained two cups before the huntress turned around. Min’s mouth was redolent of spices and tart plums. The heat between her thighs had not subsided. Two chattering Grey Elf Illusionists in their School’s blue and silver robes floated quietly across the street in front of the veranda and lost themselves in the exotic smells and sounds of the bustling Night Market. Min paid them no mind and continued to stare at the huntress. If she joined another game of Aeridrial she would probably make a killing. Elven hands were fast at shuffling cards, but Min’s eye was faster still. Those thoughts, though, were blotted out by the wild, unconquered beauty of the huntress and the way her dusky, cocoa-brown skin glowed in the suffused, opalescent light, the way her paler battle-scars glistened with tiny beads of sweat.

Min drained her third cup of wine, paused and stalked off out back. The huntress followed her. Outside, the night was cool and the bathing chamber smelled of dried medicinal herbs and fresh lavender. A long pool of water glistened in the starlight, and a row of washbasins which was kept fresh by way of an enchanted pump that swiftly refilled the silver containers with perfumed water on command. Min did not feel the alcohol – as a tiefling, she had a profound resistance to most toxins, so she made her characteristically stealthy, feline grace to a bathing cubicle opposite the washbasins. Quite nonchalantly, she pulled down her breeches and squatted onto the cool, brass pot to relieve herself.

The huntress watched her intently. Pearly juice stained the inside of Min’s thighs and the inner lining of her breeches. The ember-red down on the plump mound of her sex was sodden with nectar and, when she parted her thighs, the huntress felt her heart leap. Min’s pussy was like a lush, tropical fruit: red and spicy and juicy, each moist fold velvety with slick promise. The tiefling felt her belly and loins churn with passion as the huntress looked on, stoic and impassive like the mighty warrior she was. When she had finished, the tiefling rose and the muscles of her belly strained. She pulled her breeches up and made her way to the washbasin. The huntress stepped out in front of her and seized Min’s hips with her strong, expert hands.

Before Min knew it, black-painted lips, soft and moist pressed against hers. Min thrust her tongue in a desperate struggle against the Sylvan Elf’s wet, needy kiss. It was a warrior’s kiss – harsh, passionate and demanding. Min felt liquid between her thighs, her blood throbbed hot and burning in her temples. The huntress tugged Min’s breeches down half-thigh and swept her caress against the soft, red-crowned mound of Min’s drooling sex. Hard fingers parted the inner lips of Min’s pussy, a firm palm pressed temptingly against the hardened jewel of her clit. Min grunted and bit down hard on the huntress’ bottom lip. She drew blood and tasted it, hot and metallic, on her tongue. Soft fluting filtered into the bathing chamber from the dining hall accompanied by a low, melancholy song. The chatter was distant and all Min, hypnotised, could only go on kissing beautiful huntress. Her belly roiled with desire. She bucked her hips in desperation.

“Put your hand in me…” Min purred against the huntress’ lips. The searing flames in the Sylvan Elf’s deep brown eyes blazed on. She heard the tiefling’s tone, felt the drumming of her heart and the sodden wetness of her parted sex. She did not need to understand the strange words issuing from Min’s lips.

The tiefling rolled her hips against the huntress’ hand and traced her dextrous fingers over the pointed tips of the Sylvan Elf’s ears. She nipped at the huntress’ neck, her exposed collarbone, flicked her tongue in the hollow of her throat, always grinding, thrusting her juice-soaked sex spasmodically against that iron-hard, unyielding hand. Heat and pressure grew in Min’s clit, spreading aching tendrils into the carnal nexus deep in her blooming flower. Soon, the tiefling thought, oh so soon.

The huntress drew back and brought her hand to her lips. It was coated in pearlescent wetness. She licked and tasted cinnamon, salt, musk and tartness. Min stood dazed, a long, sticky filament of nectar sticky against the inside of her thigh. To her the bathing chamber no longer smelled of flowers, but of earth and sweat. The tiefling watched, her body tense, her turgid nipples so stiff they felt like arrowheads against the confines of her top. In an instant, their gaze met again and Min’s passionate orange eyes tried to scrutinise the dark, wild allure of the Sylvan Elf once more.

The huntress suckled her fingers clean and Min stepped forward, hesitantly, fearful of those strong, battle-hardened arms and that indomitable gaze. The Sylvan Elf warrior cupped Min’s chin and pressed a finger gently against the tiefling’s wine-red sultry lips. It was an unspoken command and Min was wise enough to obey. She knelt, her sex still pulsing with unfulfilled need, her nether lips aching with lusty fire in the cool evening air. Min pressed her kisses against the cords of the huntress’ armour straining to find some way to reveal the glory of the Sylvan Elf’s breasts. The huntress understood without being asked. One swift, knowing jerk of the knotted catch that held the tightly-wound cords in shape and the hard vines fell, pooling at the Sylvan Elf warrior’s feet. Min sighed in wonder and traced the wrought muscle of the huntress’ belly with her lips. Above her, full rounded breasts swayed ever so slightly, each dusky orb capped by a big nipple, rubbery and enticing.

There was no time, only urgency in the way the huntress caressed Min’s silky, ember-red hair, drawing the tiefling lower. Min wet the huntress’ navel with a lusty kiss and pressed on down. Then, finally she found the jungle treasure she had been searching for. A hothouse tropical flower stirred under the fat, dark mound of the huntress’ sex. Then, as she bent her knees to allow Min better access, it began to bloom. Between long, athletic thighs, was a smooth coffee-in-milk dark hillock and something beautiful unravelled underneath it. Min inhaled and kissed the very apex of the huntress sex. The aroma was rich, heady and female, with just a hint of the vegetal from the leathery cords that must have ridden so often and so delectably between the huntress’ thighs.

Min languidly brought her hands to the huntress’ thighs and trailed her fingers up the smooth skin, tracing the rougher paths of her battle-scars, until her ruby-red fingernails could trace the outer contours of the Sylvan Elf woman’s mound. Not a word was spoken. Min made her move and revealed the huntress’ treasure. Dark pink lips, so intense they almost looked purple, spread out, pouting: a forbidden secret, a jungle blossom. The huntress’ nether lips were soaked in thick, creamy nectar, like dew in a hot, humid forest. Her clit, proud and angry as it reared from its tiny hood, glistened in the starlight – a wet gem.

The huntress’ fingers dug into Min’s shoulders, her caresses more urgent. Min smiled to herself – the huntress did not want to lower herself to begging for an outlander’s tongue, but she was as drunk with lust as the tiefling. So she licked at those silky nether lips in long, hungry strokes and pressed her lips against the richly oozing bloom of the huntress’ pussy. Hot, viscous nectar cloyed Min’s mouth. The huntress was just as delicious as a Wood Elf, but her taste was stronger still, a heady mix of earthy spices, raw female richness, rounded and savoury all at the same time. This pussy – Min thought – it’s not right, here where the floor’s stone and some Grey Elf’s playing a harp in the next room…I should be licking her out in the jungle…

Min slipped two fingers into the velvety nexus of the huntress’ channel and pressed her lips around the adorable little bud of the dusky Elf’s clit. For the first time, the huntress grunted, but her pleasure was otherwise silent. Only the subtle, rhythmic rolling of her hips betrayed her desire. Min pressed her tongue against the huntress’ clit with long, slow licks, her fingers winding – first two, then three and then four – into sopping, silky channel of her lover’s sex. The huntress’ breath misted in the night air. Her belly strained, her breasts swayed, a glistening bead of sweat coursing in the deep valley between the two magnificent orbs.

The huntress’ heartbeat was palpable. Min could feel it as she lapped hungrily at the Sylvan Elf’s clit. She was ready. The tiefling bunched up her fingers and thrust hard into the huntress’ channel. The Sylvan Elf warrior almost gasped. Like Wood Elf women, she knew how to relax her channel sufficiently to accommodate Min’s winding hand. Min flowed into the tight, drenched vice of the huntress’ sex and fucked her with deliberate, grinding strokes, her knuckles ramming almost painfully against the Sylvan Elf warrior’s sweet spot, her Hanali’s Heart. Despite herself, the huntress felt her façade loosening. She toyed with one of her own big, hazelnut-brown rubbery nipples, her hips melding wantonly with the rhythm of Min’s thrusts. It was then the huntress realised the irony of her predicament. She had become prey. This strange, red-headed woman had made her heart throb, her sex drenched and sent a jolt of desire up her spine each time her burning orange gaze bored into her eyes. This strange, exotic woman, lithe as a panther, was now fucking her, hand inside her, lips pressed against her clit, feral and hungry. The woman, the huntress concluded, was a huntress in her own right. It was fitting that she had won the dagger.

Min grazed her teeth, ever so gently, against the hard bud of the huntress’ clit and pressed her hand deeper into the bronze-skinned woman’s sex. The huntress hissed, dug her thumbs into Min’s shoulders and let the knot of passion deep in her loins unwind and flood her blood with fire. Min continued licking, hoping that the huntress would reward her efforts with a hot, delectable burst of nectar, like Iniila. She was not disappointed. The huntress’ sex loosened and pulsed around Min’s fist with the contractions of her climax. A hot rush of liquid seeped out, not as copious as a Wood Elf woman after being fucked, but a gentle tide of gooey, musky essence. Min smiled, lapped her hand clean and felt the nectar flow, almost burning in its intense, fleshy spiciness, down her throat.

The huntress slumped back against the wall and quietly caught her breath. Unperturbed, Min continued to lick her at a leisurely pace, admiring the wonderful, obscene beauty of the Sylvan Elf warrior’s stretched pussy. She grasped the huntress’ waist and traced the contours of her hard, taut bottom. Her fingers slick with nectar glided through the tight crevasse, leaving a moist trail on tanned skin. She pressed her thumb against the tight knot of the huntress’ rosebud and, quite playfully, entered her. The huntress bit her lip as she felt a rush of raw, dirty desire. Her nether portal contracted deliciously around the base of the tiefling’s finger. She wanted Min, it was time for her to turn the tables – to take this lithe, red hunting cat and make it her own.

The huntress pounced and broke free from Min’s hypnotic tongue. Min shrugged and sat on the cool, granite floor, legs held close together, constrained by the bunched waistband of her breeches around her thighs. She swept her hair back and suckled on her thumb and tasted fallen leaves, ferns and earthy musk. The huntress felt a surge of need. Min was almost as uninhibited as a nymph. She paced around the tiefling. Her bare feet moved soundlessly over the stone floor. Min smiled and brushed her fingers over the huntress’ bead anklet: a present from a suitor, perhaps? The Sylvan Elf did not strike Min as one who went out of her way to find jewellery. Still, the huntress stalked, circling around Min.

When it was time, she pounced. Min fell onto her hands and knees onto cool, slick stone, her hair flailing like a fiery veil. Hard, expert fingers stripped off her top and cool air flooded her achingly stiff, ruby-red nipples. Min turned her head and let the huntress kiss her with savage lust, so that the Sylvan Elf’s slick essence was shared on their duelling lips. Min strained and felt hard nipples against her back, heavy breasts pressing on top of her. The huntress mounted her and claimed her, grinding her sopping sex against Min’s bottom, leaving hot, wet trails – her mark, her scent. Min was hers.

She leaned over Min, still kissing her, and thrust three spread fingers into the tiefling’s lush sex. Min drew a sharp breath and tensed for an instant. It was almost embarrassing – the huntress had expected her to be able to master her body as she herself had been taught in the shamanic rituals of her tribe. Min, though, was still getting used to the potential of fucking without oil. It was humiliating, for Min was loath to show this mighty huntress any sign of weakness.

“Maarai? Aenetheja atath lii?” the Sylvan Elf warrior hissed. Her voice was lilting, rhythmic.

“No, fuck, go on…” Min growled defiantly and thrust her hips back against the huntress’ invading fingers.

The huntress bit down on Min’s shoulder and thrust a fourth finger into the velvety core of the tiefling’s rich red blossom. The quarry was resisting, it was time to put her in her place. Min mewled in defeated pleasure. Her sex ached with need. The huntress paused and loosened Min up with gentle, rolling thrusts. Then she withdrew her nectar-slick fingers and pressed down on the hard bud of Min’s clit with her thumb. The tiefling braced herself and tried to spread her thighs as much as possible in the confines of her breeches. Wordlessly, the huntress thrust her hand in, slowly, deliberately, opening the silky, pliant folds of Min’s sex, snaking, winding, until the tiefling felt a jolt of agonising ecstasy fill her. Her channel stretched and the huntress was wrist deep in her. Hot breath streamed against the nape of Min’s neck. The huntress kissed her throat hungrily, almost as if she were savaging her.

Min’s blood felt thick and angry in the veins under the huntress’ lips. The huntress could feel them throb in synergy with Min’s breathing. The prey was in her grasp. Hard grinding thrusts followed and Min allowed herself to be parted. She braced, tensed and sighed with each movement of the huntress’ hand in pussy, each touch a jolt of pleasure, a pang of pain, all flowing together into liquid delirium. Min drew a sharp, urgent breath and felt her desire flare up, a tide of pleasure spreading from the sweet spot the huntress’ knuckles pressed against so mercilessly. She came with a deep, visceral spasm, a shudder that arched her back and caused her thighs and arms to tense under their combined weight. It did not end. Her sweet surrender continued, thrust after winding thrust and Min lost track of time and her surroundings and only counted the huntress’ breaths against her neck.

The music from outside had stopped altogether by the time the huntress withdrew and they rose to their feet together, kissing, nipping, scrambling to explore one another. Min smelled sweat mingled with the fruity perfume on the huntress’ skin. A light, almost regretful chuckle escaped the Sylvan Elf warrior’s lips and Min knew it was time to go. The huntress leaned over a silver washbasin and splashed her lust-fevered skin with cool water. Min stood behind her, nuzzling her soft, coal-black hair and then tracing her tongue down the length of her back. She fell back to the familiar, cold ground and the huntress parted her thighs and leaned forward. Min lapped down the tight crevasse of the huntress’ bottom and flicked her tongue against the tight star of the warrior’s rosebud. She coaxed and teased the little portal with wet, exploring licks. A forbidden flavour – like almonds and the welcoming earthiness of the forest floor. Min’s kisses than trailed down the inside of the huntress’ thigh, to her strong calves, until she felt the cool, crimson beads of the warriors anklet under her lips. The huntress smiled to herself. Her prey was a wanton little thing. She turned around and drew Min into her embrace and they kissed lustily, pressed up against the wall, Min’s hands exploring the soft expanse of the huntress’ breasts, so unlike the athletic hardness of the rest of her body.

They washed – the huntress matter-of-factly, as if she were on an expedition, and Min, as usual, fastidiously. Back in the tavern the night was winding down. A soft, soothing song floated from the stage, sung by a waif-like Grey Elven girl with silver hair interwoven with strings of pearls. She was clad in a pristine white dress, daringly slit open at the front, so that her belly was bared – her navel crowned with a shimmering diamond. Min motioned for a serving boy to bring her wine while the huntress took a deep breath and stretched, her body lithe and languid. Min drank the spicy elixir, stroked her newly-won dagger and wondered whether the huntress would have been cold, lonely or simply spaced by the mighty urban expanse of Imej. If she was, she gave no sign of it. They waited for the act to end and the two Illusionists they had seen earlier returned from the bathing chamber, giggling softly and Min did not have to understand Grey Elven to know what they had deduced. The lights were dimmed once more, so that the dining hall seemed plunged into a shadowy penumbra. A few dedicated gamers remained at their tables indulging in the pleasures of infinitely complex card or bead games on intricate playing boards.

The huntress nodded and Min smiled and wished she had some Dreamsmoke. They walked out together onto the street and watched the warm, reddish lights of the Night Market flow in the distance. It would be open till morning. Heady air, full of the sweet, pungent and intoxicating aromas of the forest wafted, incongruous, through the high parapets and towers of Imej. The Sylvan Elf warrior drew her basalt-rock dagger, sharper than any metal knife, and trailed the smooth edge of its cold blade over the red-tinted skin of Min’s forearm. Min shuddered involuntarily and observed each deft movement of her companion’s hand. The huntress seized a handful of Min’s ember-red hair and drew her close. With a swift, precise slash she cut off a few strands of rich red tresses close to the scalp. Min did not move. She knew from the trajectory of the dagger and the steadiness of the huntress’ hands that she was in no danger.

Dextrous fingers gathered the bunch of severed hair into a tightly wound braid. Under Min’s admiring eyes, that token of her being became an intricately curled length, like a decorative cord about a finger long. The huntress hooked the braided cord into a narrow, circular opening at the base of the ebony pommel of her dagger and fastened it tight. Now she had her trophy – testament of a successful hunt. She sheathed her dagger and Min watched the blood-red hair bob at the huntress’ side with a tinge of pride.

Shrouded in the darkness, they kissed again, Min pressed up against the wall while the huntress devoured her lips. The Sylvan Elf trailed the waistband of Min’s breeches and felt the smooth, taut belly beneath her fingers. She slipped a hand underneath and ground the heel of her hand against the stiff pearl of Min’s clit. The tiefling groaned and rolled her hips. Her passionate sighs were suffocated by the warm heaven of the huntress’ mouth.

When the huntress finally broke the kiss, breathless, her eyes aflame, she laid her head between Min’s breasts and kissed the place closest to the tiefling’s drumming heart. There was no use postponing it, it was time to go. Not a word was spoken. The huntress kissed Min briskly on the lips one last time, took two steps backwards, turned and left, striding up towards the bustling Night Market. There was no place for sentimentality in a hunter’s world.

Min slumped back against the wall and looked at the sky. Both moons were obscured and only starlight illuminated the sapphire vault of the heavens. She breathed wistfully and watched mist float from her lips. She half hoped the huntress would turn around, but when she didn’t, Min simply shrugged and returned to the tavern. She now had a fine, perhaps unique dagger for her collection, but, as she felt the dull throb between her legs and in her breast bristle with need, she realised that she would trade the exquisite weapon back just to know the huntress’ name.