Sigil - Book I

by CrimsonLotus

Sigil Preludes | Sigil Book II

Sigil Book I - Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11

Sigil Book One, Chapter I

So traveller, now begins our story true and proper, to which the preludes you have no doubt browsed were but a foreshadowing. Anyone, I suspect, is capable of concocting his or her own recipe for disaster. It's only a matter of time, however, before we stumble upon the formula accidentally. If hindsight is perfect, it is only because, compared with our dreams and fantasies, life is always tragic. So we look back and retroactively allocate blame to arbitrary events of people. The truth of the matter is, of course, that fate has a way of always finding things to go wrong. Some, with nothing interesting to say, would conclude "that's just life". Of course, that's only half the story because it is its tragedy that makes life interesting. Why else would people pay to go to the theatre?

- The Archivist, your narrator

"Il est plus honteux de se défier de ses amis que d'en être trompé."

"So what are we going to do about the dark elf in the closet?" Marséna mused as she busied herself with her longsword and whetstone. The scraping of stone against steel echoed around the armoury.

"That's not nice." Virginia corrected. They were to be on duty soon. Marséna, however, had an obsessive-compulsive relationship with her equipment. Virginia remembered that back when they shared a bunk bed, chaos had been the rule. This had irritated the normally fastidious Virginia to no end, but the sheer amount of effort which Marséna invested in her weapons and armour had always been admirable. Different priorities, Virginia supposed.

"You're right, Virg it isn't," Marséna said, inspecting her handiwork by a running a single finger down the blade. It was acceptable, but she knew she could do better, "it's like the hobgoblins you thought lived under your bed when you're little, only this one's real."

"You're exaggerating, now. I feel like I can trust Lily. And I'm working on explanation for the Vice-Commander." Virginia genuinely believed the first part, but the comment about the explanation was a barefaced lie. There was no conceivable way she could explain the leadership of an order dedicated to preserving liberty from the depredations of banditry, slavery and bondage that she had casually struck a friendship with a dark elf and was, additionally, housing it in the knight's Quarters. Something had to be done, though, because as secretive as Lily no doubt could be, it was only a matter of time before she was discovered. In the shorter term, too, it was impractical to keep Lily locked up in the apartment, even if, to Virginia's knowledge, the drow ought to have been well adapted to living in cramped spaces; they did, after all, originate underground.

"If only you could trust everyone you slept with." Marséna sighed as she finally sheathed her sword and adjusted her breastplate.

"How do you..." Virginia was aghast, she had planned on telling Marséna but the pre-emption had stunner her.

"How long have we known each other?" Marséna said maliciously, rising to her feet.

"Clearly too long," Virginia groaned, "am I really that transparent?"

"No, but I have ears as well as eyes. Keep it down next time." Marséna's mirthful, lightly mocking laugh filled the armoury. Virginia could only blush and turn away slightly.

"So, changing the subject, are you all set?" Marséna asked, stretching her arms in front of her. Her olive skin stood in relief against the bright silver of her breastplate; Virginia thought it beautiful and certainly a welcome change from her own paleness, or the equally light complexions of Syf or Friyya. Ortho and Mareterra clearly had different suns.

"Yes, but your hair ought to be tied tighter." Virginia said, loosening the plain black fabric bindings that held Marséna's waist-length hair in one long, free-flowing braid. It was truly raven black, with a pleasantly pliable consistency prompted by the intermittent presence of subtle curls.

"I know. But it would be a shame to cut mine short, no?"

"I thought Friyya was supposed to be vain, but you're no better." Virginia chided.

"Sour grapes. I bet you've been mistaken for a boy." Marséna's tongue had a sharpness to it which, in Virginia's experience, knew exactly where to cut.

Ignoring the comment, Virginia contented herself with finishing Marséna's braid with one brisk tug.

"Ai! easy." Marséna protested.

"Slipped." Virginia replied smugly, planting a playful kiss on Marséna's cheek.

"Hmm...look it's white bread and bramble jam." Friyya hummed as she strolled into the armoury, fully outfitted with her helmet in hand.

"Fuck you, I'm not that dark." Marséna growled.

"Your mouth," Virginia reprimanded softly, before turning to face Friyya, "Goddess, Friyya if you weren't so juvenile you may just be mistaken for an intellectual from time to time."

"Oh, c'mon now...what is it with all these exotic preferences of yours - first Mareterrans then dark elves. Ortho girls aren't good enough for you anymore?"

"Conjugate giban in the present indicative." Virginia challenged.

Friyya could only glare back, flustered. She had a good memory and was quite an avid reader, but languages, even her ancestral language, were so far removed from the remit of her studies that she had not even considered them.

"Thought so." Virginia taunted.

Then it occurred to Friyya. Since when was Virginia a linguist or an antiquarian?

"Hey, but neither can...."

"Too late." Virginia interrupted, raising her hand dismissively as she and Marséna doubled over in fits of stifled laughter before quickly and nervously recovering their composure to fall to their knees, eyes respectfully fixed on the ground as Vice-Commander Isobel entered the armoury.

At this point, it may be difficult to convey to the reader the awe which Isobel's presence instilled in her subordinates, but it suffices to say that in combating the wicked, the fiendish and the outright demonic for much of her life had made her adopt at least an element of the terrible aspect of the evil she fought. Tall, carrying herself with military rigidity, her hair blood red - dyed Friyya had often whispered maliciously behind Isobel's back -, her face adorned with shocks of red and black protective war paint. Though not a brutal woman, Isobel was a disciplinarian and kept her wicked cane as close to her as her legendary zweihänder greatsword. Its blade had certainly run red, black and ichor-green with the blood of many a demon. As Consecrated paladins whose promotion had only been recent, what made Virginia, Friyya and Marséna most nervous was the cane.

"Rise." Isobel's voice carried the expectation of immediate compliance which was never withheld.

"Greetings, Reverend Sister." The three chimed together.

"Friyya, am I a schoolmistress?" Isobel had always treated all her subordinates fairly and equally, but there was fair and then there fair. The latter description could, broadly speaking, have defined her attitude to Friyya.

"No, Reverend Sister." The paladin mumbled.

"So don't greet me like one: speak up! You're not thirteen anymore."

"Yes, Reverend Sister." Friyya managed a clearer tone.

"Don't worry about it, I won't be holding my breath." Isobel concluded dismissively before finally addressing the group, "Now, I understand you performed commendably on your last outing. You even managed to put your training into practise and have your first taste of the blood of the irredeemably wicked. Be advised, though, that felling unarmoured thugs is one thing and pursuing the crusade of the Vigilant Maiden is another. You are only at the beginning, so I want to see no over-eagerness. Exercise caution at all times and you may live to serve this Order with the glory it deserves."

"Yes, Reverend Sister." The three called back in unison.

"For today, I imagine there will be less excitement. I want the three of you to take a watch detail by the Shattered Temple. Though banished since the times of the Faction War, the godless Athar have sought to rebuild their influence. Their attachment to what they believe to be the folly of the gods is revolting, but it is their weakness. You will be confined to surveillance. Take your positions on the roof of a nearby building. Any untoward activity should be reported to these headquarters before the Civic Security authorities are notified, am I clear?" Isobel did not trust the Sigil authorities, such as they were, nor did she trust the factional, divided nature of the city's society. All she could trust were her fellow sisters at arms.

"Yes, Reverend Sister."

"Excuse me, Reverend Sister..." Friyya interjected nervously.

"What?" Came the impatient reply.

"Won't Syf..."

"No, she has fencing training to lead. As a matter of fact," Isobel's tone was contemptuous as she peered directly into Friyya's eyes, "what a good paladin like Syf is doing with a soft layabout like you is a mystery to me. Be advised that you can ply her all you want with your charms, but she will not always be there to lead you by the hand, understood?"

"Yes...Reverend Sister." Friyya resolved to let things run their course naturally next time.

"Now if there are no more special requests for lovers or mothers, you are dismissed."

The three initiate paladins bowed and gratefully took their leave.

"Virginia!" Isobel called out, almost as an afterthought.The blonde paladin stopped in her tracks, her heart beginning to race.

"Next time you fail to report to me you'll spend a week in Penitential, understood?"

"Yes, Reverend Sister. I'm very sorry...please accept my unqualified..."

"Out!"

Virginia was only too happy to obey.

"I hate sentry duty." Marséna said tersely as the party made its way to the Hive Ward. The gloomy, sundered ruins of the great temple of the blasphemous god Aoskar loomed before them, its carcass of shattered steel, glass and black stone a testament to the absolute power to Lady of Pain - Sigil's mysterious governing entity - over even the divine within her realm.

"We only just qualified for our Consecration, I hardly think we should be doing anything far more dangerous." Friyya ventured.

"So when are you going to dedicate yourself entirely to teaching novices their doctrine and Axioms and leave the real work to us?" Marséna snapped back.

"Leave her." Virginia said firmly. It was a shame that Syf had not accompanied them; she seemed to have the ability to balance the party and keep everyone working comfortably to the best of their ability. With Syf out of the equation, it was up to Virginia to actively play the peacemaker. But, the blonde paladin mused, the relationship between Marséna and Friyya was strange: they had good days when they would talk amiably, share a few laughs or even chat through the evening under the same blanket in the common room; and bad days, like the one Virginia was currently being forced to put up with, when one puerile barb followed another.

The squalor of the Hive never ceased to amaze Virginia. It was as if all the most wretched mass of the planar realms had been discharged into the most narrow and fetid of spaces. Dilapidated houses leaned on one another in a neverending succession of architectural grotesquery and impossibility. The streets ran thick with sentient scum: cutthroats, thieves, demons, half-demons and quarter-demons, assassins and pimps. Raw life, Virginia thought wryly to herself.

"Where should we set up positions?" Marséna inquired as they approached the great, blasted square where the Shattered Temple squatted like the decaying corpse of the god who was once worshipped there.

"Far right, there's a house with its roof removed, probably so someone could sell the tin, we could stake out on the top floor, I think it overlooks most avenues of access to the Temple." Virginia suggested.

Friyya and Marséna both nodded their assent, so the party made its way discreetly towards the ruined structure, which turned out to be utterly uninhabited and, indeed, uninhabitable. Most of the veneer on the wood had been chipped away and the planks beneath their feet were rotted. A rickety set of stairs led up to the topmost floor where the dim light of Sigil's day filtered easily through the collapsed ceiling. From a height, the Shattered Temple actually had its charm. As a ruin, it had been well preserved, though overgrown with razorvine, and it looked like an oddly appropriate landmark in Sigil's most desolate, most chaotic cityscape. If there was beauty in this chaos, it was in its organic, spontaneous quality. From their vantage point, the party could see the great curve of Sigil's wheel stretch and curve out in the distance. With their observation lens, the paladins could see the tall, stately arches and pointed steeples of the Lady's Ward and the Clerk's Ward.

"So we wait?" Marséna said impatiently.

"We wait." Answered Virginia as she sat down on the bare, creaking floor, observation lens in hand, methodically scrutinising the passing human and inhuman traffic, "I'll take first watch, you two stay by the entrance."

"How lucky I am to be backed up by the Radiant Path's finest." Marséna opined, though, to be fair, Friyya was a reasonably competent swordswoman.

"Well, Syf's lived thus far with a modest fighter like myself by her side, but, of course, you hardly stand to be placed in the same class..."

"Which is exactly where I hope to prove you wrong, now let's move." Marséna snapped.

********

Sigismund Pandulf von Dassau, Director of the 3rd Bureau of Civic Security had two great passions since recanting his allegiance to Yugoloth hierarchy and seeking redemption through law enforcement: reading and wine. Originally a member of the arcanoloth caste of the Yugoloth fiends whose role it was to tempt both other demons and mortals into signing damning, labyrinthine contracts which promised short-term advantage but inevitably led to long term disaster, he had ultimately found this line of work unrewarding and, frankly, demeaning to his prodigious intellect. So he had cleared his desk, so to speak, and made a quick dash for Sigil, where the Lady of Pain's watchful eye ensured no high-level cosmic interference from outside, thus allowing Dassau to carve a new niche for himself in the Civic Security Department, an institution established in the wake of the decline of the Factions who had previously engaged in specialised sectors of Sigil's administration.

Although Dassau had immediately been appointed to high rank, he had found upwards mobility through the corrupt morass of Sigil's politics to be somewhat difficult. Ironically he, the former corrupter, was now having his career stifled by corrupt mortals who did not need a crooked contract to sin in greed or ambition. They appeared to do so out of second nature. In any case, Bureau Director was interesting enough. His new martial calling had allowed him to remodel his appearance. Though the inner nature of his demonic soul compelled him to remain with a canine theme, he had abandoned the jackal, whose connotation in most cultures was tied either to death or deception, and selected a particular breed of dog which on some worlds was known as Dobermann and on others, notably Ortho, as the West Gothic Mastiff.

Though his visage remained a snarling, demonic parody of a dog's, it was at least tempered by better intentions, and although his long fingers, complete with disease-injecting claws were as eager as ever to point out flaws in any argument - for his legal mind was second to none -, Dassau had at least chosen to conceal them beneath black leather gloves which complemented the military cut of his uniform. Time off from formulating contracts which were impossible to fulfil had given him ample time to research numerous cultural perceptions of appearance. So he was always impeccably dressed.

"Sir, some activity has been reported by an informant near the Shattered Temple."

"So I hear, take note Isolde." Dassau instructed his private secretary.

Isolde was new in the Bureau. She had taken up the job because she knew she could set about it with grim determination where her predecessors, utterly fed up with Dassau's innumerable eccentricities, had failed. So she had volunteered and won Dassau's grudging trust, if not respect. But only as an underling and a factotum.

"Since the Athar, Faction of the Godless, as stipulated in Article 224, Paragraph 9, Line 3 of the Provisional Code of Public Security has been banned from the city in toto for activities deemed disreputable, blasphemous and seditious, any recrudescence of their activity is to be proscribed according to Article 225 of the same code and, under such provisions, those apprehended beyond reasonable doubt in the process of conducting conversations, transactions or public gatherings in support of the Athar movement are to be subject to imprisonment pending a capital trial, are you writing this?"

The question was redundant. Although she held pencil and paper, Isolde never wrote anything down. Dassau's recall was perfect. Anything he, or anyone else, said or wrote was immediately recorded and could be retrieved from the arcanoloth's archive-mind with effortless ease. In effect, Isolde did not have a job. Dassau did not need a secretary, but merely demanded one as a reflection of his rank. In reality, Isolde's days were filled with bringing Dassau library books and wine from the demon's vast, personal demi-plane cellar which could be accessed by a portal on the left wall of his office. But even that could not relieve the boredom. Dassau could read and memorise even the thickest of books in a few hours. This meant that there were long intervals between activities to occupy his fertile, contorted mind for him to mull over Hell knows what. He had become quite neurotic as a consequence, making increasingly obscure references to even more abstruse literary works, all the while interweaving his professional thoughts with long, perfectly argued and factually accurate, but inconceivably boring digressions.

"...In conclusion, this Office recommends that clearance be provided in accordance with Article 99 of the Code of Praxis in order to secure a more substantial deployment of field operatives in response to aforesaid Provisional Code of Public Security violations."

Isolde looked up, expecting her next order. She hated to admit it, but she would have preferred being in bed. She needed a glucose tablet and she was certain that there had been some additional tartar buildup on her teeth since two strikes of the Bell Tower ago when she had last washed them. She would excuse herself at the next opportunity. The speck of dust she had found against the windowpane still bothered her, nagging at the back of her head like a burrowing worm. She could not trust Lirai to clean it up so by the time she got back she probably would have to disinfect the whole windowframe.

"I am sorry, but are you paying attention, Isolde?" Sigil's lingua franca was not a particularly poetic tongue, but Dassau spoke with such a precise, aristocratic intonation as to make it seem otherwise. Isolde assumed that the same could be said of the countless other languages Dassau had picked up in the aeons he had spent trawling the Planes looking for mortals and immortals to corrupt.

"Sorry sir, I feel I would be more attentive if I had taken an additional glucose tablet this morning."

"Are you telling me that you still consume those appalling things? Oh, and that reminds me. If one has an interest in the sweet, then there is no vintage like the Pollesson 625, single vineyard cuvee from the left bank of the Torvalle River on Mareterra. Its effusive sweetness gives way to a humbling mid-palate of glorious sun-dried fruits, namely the muscat grape, the apricot, the orange flower petal and the late-ripening pear, and, finally, an interminably lengthy persistence on the palate in which evident notes of incense, camphor and beeswax can be detected. Thus, in conclusion, drink wine and not glucose."

"I shall keep that in mind, sir." Isolde replied. The thought of the innumerable contaminations present in most foods revolted her. Decay in human bodies, as she understood it, began at three. So she had weathered seventeen years of decay thus far and, thanks to her highly regimented lifestyle, was none the worse for it. In Isolde's estimation, her teeth and skin were a perfect, unblemished white. She was the perfect embodiment of an ideal Mid-Western Ortho female racial type: straight blonde hair, well-proportioned Gothic skull, symmetrical blue eyes endowed with perfect vision; breasts and hips within proportions which were deemed acceptable for functional femininity but not given to garish vulgarity. In other words, Isolde knew herself to be a perfectly maintained physical specimen. No decay would be allowed. Decay was weakness.

"Very well. You may procure yourself a glucose tablet; from thence retrieve the Seventh Philology Annual Edition of the Fraternity of Order; finally return to the 5th Bureau and liaise with me at regular intervals regarding the situation at the Shattered Temple."

"At your service, sir." Isolde was grateful for the time granted to her for a quick snack. It would be more than an adequate window of opportunity in which to clean her teeth.

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

"Having a bad day?" Marséna inquired as Friyya paced around the entrance hall at the bottom floor of the derelict building. Surveillance duty was depressing as it stood, but guarding a doorway Marséna was convinced had not been breached in at least a decade was worse still.

"What do you think?" Friyya snapped back.

"Are we going to stop this now?" Friyya had started it bright and early that morning and now, it was up to Marséna to end it.

"Sure." The paladin conceded sullenly, privately relieved she did not have to lose face in apologising, "What did you want to ask?"

"What's Isobel's problem with you?

"To be honest, I don't know, maybe because my talents lie outside her field. She's like you, she wouldn't trust me on mission." Friyya bit her lip in frustration. The Radiant Path wasn't meant to be all shimmering breastplates and drawn swords, it was a philosophy, a way of life and a powerful moral message as well - it was love.

"Don't play the victim, you know I trust you." This was no time to be leading Friyya into an emotional tailspin.

"Yeah, but you're better than me."

"At this, maybe," Marséna reassured, placing one gauntleted hand on the pommel of her sword, "but we've grown into a team for a reason, we need each other, and not just in battle. C'mon, none of us has half the mind you do."

"You flatter me, I'm no genius."

"I only know that late night study sessions with you saved us all from some really well-deserved punishment." Marséna said, smiling warmly.

Friyya chuckled knowingly to herself, "Alright, peace then and we can kiss and make up properly when we're off duty."

"Oh, so Syf isn't enough for you now." Marséna teased.

"Well," Friyya said with affected conceit, placing her hands on her hips "I am a woman of the world."

Marséna could not help but laugh, though the comment had brought her on to a more serious point, "Speaking of Syf, there's been something I needed to ask you."

"Hmm?"

"I envy you."

"What?" Friyya snorted.

"You seem to have it easy, as if the pieces fitted together and you didn't have to make it work, as if your relationship worked by its very nature."

"Trouble with Shesayne?"

"Yes," Marséna admitted between gritted teeth, "she's been distant in the last few days. That and I think she's been put off by other things weighing on my mind."

"I'm no expert," Friyya began, "but, I can suggest this. Drop your baggage, put the weight of your soul away, at least for the evening. If you're suffering, she'll know but you ought not to convey your frustrations on her. Sort them out beforehand, you owe her that. That and Shesayne's sensitive, she needs to love Marséna who is thinking about Shesayne, not Marséna thinking about other things."

"It's been a bit of a flat period recently, for lots of things. I just wish I could start putting my life in order."

"We all do." Friyya said, placing a reassuring hand on Marséna's shoulder, "But do this, make love to her tonight, so that she knows that you still need her, then, when you're both certain that there should be no secrets between you, I promise you that there will be no need for one to tell the other something important, but because the other will always ask first."

"You're joking. You make it sound like child's play."

"A plant grows effortlessly, but only if given water, sun and soil."

"Friyya, your turn." Virginia called out from upstairs. Nothing important had happened and the changeover would at least give her opportunity to stretch her stiff legs a little.

"Got to go, but I'd like to pick this back up again sometime."

"Whenever you want." Marséna shouted as Friyya ascended the stairs. She knew that they could well have been quarrelling again the following day, but that was just the way it was with sisters, Marséna thought, you don't choose them, you sometimes wish you could wring their neck, but, in the end, you could not help needing them.

Virginia came down shortly afterwards, looking a good deal more tired and frustrated. "I would almost say it's a fool's errand. If there is suspicious activity here, they're being quite discreet about it."

"Don't worry about it, I heard they send newly Consecrated paladins on pointless missions just to test their virtues of patience and cooperation. The reasoning is that if we don't rip each other apart after half a day of mind-numbing, repetitive activity we're good to go against the legions of evil."

"So did you and Friyya rip each other apart?" Virginia said, leaning back on the wall next to Marséna, her hand never far from the pommel of her sword.

"No. But she left me with the impression that I owe her a bath or a dinner. Probably both."

"I knew it!" Virginia exclaimed, "It's been like that between you two since the beginning, just like adolescent sisters."

"No, it was not! I really hated her in the beginning, remember?" Marséna protested.

"Case and point." Virginia concluded smugly.

"By the way, Virg..." Marséna began, unsure of how to best approach the topic.

"Yeah."

"Friyya said I needed to deal with the things that have been bothering me, so please hear me out."

"I think I know what this is about, but go on."

"I don't think you're a poor judge of character, but I do think you're a good person and sometimes, you can be under the impression that people can change readily, from black to white." Virginia groaned, she knew that Lily would have entered the conversation at some point.

"C'mon, Virg just hear me out."

"Fine." Virginia relented, she knew better than to dismiss Marséna's concerns out of hand.

"You know what they say in the valleys around my town? They say that you can't train a wolf to become a sheepdog. He just won't take it, he may have the best of intentions, he may grow affectionate to the shepherd, even, but eventually, he always relapses. It's not because he's a bad wolf, on the contrary, he's a good wolf, that's why he'll always eat sheep."

"We all have free choice, Marséna...if educated, anyone can make the right choice." Virignia interrupted, she had considered this argument before and found it less than convincing. The notion that evil was an absolute, irreversible value was suspicious, to say the least, to her. Nevertheless, culture was a powerful thing because it dictated mindset and Lily, once a fully acculturated and even elite member of her race, was certainly steeped more than most in drow social mores.

"I'm not finished," Marséna continued, as she now tilted her head to face Virginia, "when I was a child, in my thirteenth year - I think - they trapped a wolf in the pasture near my family's farmstead. I remember the shepherds came down from the hills and it was about vintage-time because the grapes in our vineyards were big, and so red they were almost black. They took me to see the animal as it lay there, thrashing against the snare around its paw on the grass. He was a big one too, male, brown and muscular. One of the shepherds gave me a knife and told me to finish it off. So I did. I took a leather strap to hold up into the wolf's jaws and cut his throat, just like I'd always done when I was made to slaughter lambs. He struggled a while, so my hands and dress were covered in blood. I was proud that I had killed a wolf, but the shepherds, they looked at me with surprise, maybe fear. So they took me to the capitain rezent, the governor of our commune. He had one look at me and said, 'she has the blood of Furies, a massaluo, a wolf killer, she will have no peace in marriage, her honour will lie in the carrying of arms.' So they bundled me up and sent me away to the Order. I did not understand then, but I understand now, what it meant to kill the wolf."

"Marséna...I never..."

"Don't take it personally, I hate that fucking story."

"I still don't really understand what you meant by it, though."

"I suppose what I'm saying is," Marséna said gently, staring into Virginia's eyes with a depth of emotion the blonde paladin had rarely seen before, "that it's bad enough that you expect someone's nature to change for you, just like that, but it makes matters even worse when you volunteer to change your own nature at the same time. You and I, Virg, we are both massaluo, that shouldn't change."

"You're jealous, aren't you?" Virginia knew Marséna too well.

"Yes, a little, so what? Does that lessen my point?" Marséna said defiantly.

"Why, Marséna?" Virginia began her voice a little choked with emotion, this was digging up an archive of the heart she hoped to keep shut - permanently - and it was hardly the ideal subject matter for mission duty, "It's been a long time. I was so happy for you when...when you found Shesayne. I thought time had made things better for you."

"Has it for you?"

"Yes," Virginia confessed, "but we were still novices then and over the last couple of years, I think I've been searching for something else. I don't think what I'm seeking is necessarily better, but I owe it to myself to give it a try."

"I don't think I've ever stopped loving you, Virg." Marséna said quietly, running a hand as quickly as possible across her cheeks in the hope that Virginia didn't catch on.

"Neither have I, silly, you..."

"No!" Marséna interrupted, her voice more frantic than it should have been, "You know exactly what I mean. I want the kind of love you won't give me." Then, remembering her duty, Marséna composed herself, running a hand across her cheeks again before assuming an alert, dispassionate stance. She swallowed heavily, "This will have to wait another time."

Virginia stood there listlessly. Not another word was exchanged.

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

"No activity at the Shattered Temple over the span of this working day, sir." Isolde declared with some satisfaction.

"I salute your efforts!" Dassau replied, raising a long, gloved finger into the air, his eyes glowing with the demonic malice he could never quite suppress, "But I must ask you to stay beyond the usual hour."

"May I enquire why, sir?"

"Naturally, we live in a socially progressive society. I require your support for my mnemonic exercises."

"Mnemonic, sir? But your memory is flawless."

"On the contrary, the inactivity of recent times has weakened the resolve and brilliance of my spirit. This cannot be permitted, hence you shall open any of these books at a random page and cite the page and work concerned. Subsequently, I shall begin a recitation, from memory, from the beginning of the page to its very end. Should there be any discrepancies in my recall, you are to identify them immediately for instantaneous rectification."

"But sir..." Isolde had been desperate to return home all day, to climb into her nice clean bed with perfumed, freshly washed Lirai and enter into a communion of pure bodies and souls with her.

"There are no objections, Isolde. This is not Gehenna, there is a chain of command here!" Dassau's fist fell heavily on the table. The old dog, Isolde decided, was definitely struggling in the deep end. Reformed or not, Dassau's essence remained demonic, as did his taste for soul-draining, tortuous exercises.

"As you wish, sir." Reluctantly taking up a vast, leatherbound tome, she flipped it open to a central page, "Disquisition on Mathematical and Physical Etiology, page 422."

"Which, though easily cross-referenced with experiments 9a through 22 (viz. also Appendix III) is not a function proper, but a strong hypothesis on the causational factors associated with..."

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

"Do you mind if I sit down?" Asked Friyya as she stood in her apartment's common room. She had sent an exhausted Syf to bed with the promise of joining her soon and seen an unusually taciturn Virginia clear the table and bring some food to her drow lover - or was it prisoner?. Only she and Marséna remained. The raven-haired paladin sat listlessly on the most divan which was the common room's centrepiece, curled up under a blanket, a glass of - contraband - wine from her homeworld in one hand. The bottle, already more than half drained, was on the table.

"Sure, misery loves company." Marséna said, taking a sip of the dark, almost ink-black liquid. It reminded her of the aromatic shrubs, sun-burnt earth and fresh orchard fruits of her home.

"What happened to Shesayne?" Friyya asked, perhaps needlessly, as she sat down,

"We quarrelled."

Friyya had gathered as much. Shesayne as one temperamental half-elf and certainly controlled by unpredictable passions.

"I'm sorry. I guess I'm not much of an advisor, either."

"No, it was my fault," Marséna said ruefully, "I was bitter...I told her to leave."

"I hope everything you said can be taken back." Friyya said, placing one hand over Marséna's shoulder.

"Yeah, me too. Come here, it's getting cold." Marséna said, as she drew Friyya under the blanket, holding the slight, auburn-haired girl close to her, "Want a sip?" She asked, offering Friyya the glass.

"Why not?"

Friyya was not used to wine of this potency, much preferring the sweet, white diluted sort which was so common in Sigil's Ortho-descended community. She coughed slightly, the alcohol burning her throat and nostrils. Marséna laughed and kissed her on the cheek, "This, my dear, is real wine."

"I'm giddy already." Friyya protested. How anyone could drink anything so sharp and bitter was beyond her. Sinking deeper into Marséna's embrace, Friyya felt the dark-haired paladin's supple, generous breasts against her own under the thin fabric of their nightgowns, "I'm sorry Marséna. I really want you to be happy, believe me."

"I know you do."

"You quarrelled with Virg too, didn't you."

"Yes."

"I admire you in so many ways, but if I could tell you one thing it would be this: don't fight with the people who love you the most." Friyya snuggled closer, revelling in the guilty pleasure of hearing Marséna's breathing surround her and smelling the light fragrance of the raven-haired girl's citrus perfume.

"I know I shouldn't, but sometimes I feel so lost."

"You and I," Friyya said, her voice more conspiratorial than Marséna had ever heard it, "we're alike. We've both lost our homeland, our roots. I more than you, because at least you have your memories, your language. I have nothing, just the people I have found around me in Sigil. We have no country outside the Order of the Radiant Path, virtually no family...it's just us four. That's the way it was in the beginning and, sometimes, I hope that's the way it will always be."

"I wish you'd think of that before you made your stupid jokes at my expense." Marséna said, nevertheless enjoying the human warmth that Friyya provided.

"Like all families, there are some things we just have to put up with, right?" Friyya said, suppressing a yawn. It was becoming quite late and even that small sip of Marséna's wine had been a cannonball to her brain. What she had said about family though, that Friyya had wanted to tell Marséna for a long time. That almost humiliating confession that, by now, Marséna was more of a sister to her than any member of her original family, that just the thought of not seeing her every morning, or at the dinner table every each evening filled Friyya with gut-wrenching pain. All those thoughts would have their time, though, and, at that juncture, all Friyya wanted was to sleep.

"Well, if you don't mind, I think I ought to get some sleep before tomorrow." Friyya said, pulling the blanket tighter against her.

"Won't Syf miss you?"

"Let me worry about that."

"Shouldn't we go to my bed then..."

"I'm comfortable here, what about you?" Friyya said. She had begun to doze off, feeling comfortably secure in Marséna's embrace.

"Getting better." Marséna commented, burying her face in Friyya's soft, auburn tresses.

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

Thoughts of a homeland of a very different kind filled Lily's thoughts as she lay awake, perfectly at home in the pitch blackness of Virginia's bedchamber. The blonde paladin slept almost soundlessly beside her. Lily's thoughts, though, were filled with a thousand fears and uncertainties and the pulsating trepidation at the back of her head that this was all ploy. She was being drawn into some web, there must have been some scheme to lure her into this den of an alien goddess for ulterior motives. There was, the dark elf reflected, no such thing as a free lunch and, although she had been more than willing to provide Virginia with all the bedchamber pleasures she required, that was, she thought, scarcely enough to justify her permanence in that strange place.

At that point, Lily had outlined two choice for herself, neither particularly appealing, but, as always, pragmatism was the key to survival: one only had to look at spiders who found some life to cling onto even in the smallest of cracks and corners: first, she could simply leave and this would have the advantage of assuaging her anxiety at remaining in a place had yet to fully comprehend; second, and perhaps preferably, she could try insinuate herself in the social ladder of the society in which she had found herself. To the drow's knowledge, it could not have been that dissimilar to her own society. Females appeared to be dominant and, favourably, unlike drow culture, her new milieu appeared to be less interested in the notion of racial purity. Since she was in a minority of one, this would server her well.

Of course, were she to go ahead with the social experiment, the greatest caution would have to be exercised but, it would have been foolish to let her advantage slip: she had already found her way into the bed of what appeared to be a leading personage. There was nothing new there, Lily thought with self-satisfaction, it had taken her a mere three Abyssal Cycles to find a suitably high-ranking priestess as a mistress - in order to secure advancement in the byzantine hierarchy of her city - whilst in training to become a cleric of Lloth. Assuming a comparative method of cultural study, it was only logical that to become sufficiently powerful and respected to the extent that she would no longer have to fear for her safety, she would have to become Virginia's accomplice, as well as her lover.

Then of course, Virginia would ultimately become useless and Lily could move on and away. Such was the course of things. Power relationships were always changing, always in flux and it took a keen mind to ride the crest of each wave. For Lily, had nadir had come when her House had been destroyed: it would all be upwards from there.

Lying in the stillness, Lily briefly considered how depressingly humiliating it was to submit in bed to a human. But such, she supposed, was the way of all worlds: power was the only constant across all cultures and societies. In the end, the dark elf concluded, it was better to be between Virginia's thighs than dead; indeed, the two options did not even bear comparison.

***********

"So...do you, ah...actually, eat your males?" Syf inquired curiously, staring curiously at the very surreal scene of a dark elf eating breakfast at the kitchen table. Although she had initially been reticent about the idea of accepting the presence of a wolf in sheep's...well, just a wolf, actually, she was overwhelmed by curiosity and had decided to break the ice.

"And what gave you that impression?" Lily's voices was odd to Syf's ears, melodious, but underscored by a strange accent infused with tonalities whose nuances she could not quite catch.

"Well, there is the spider issue."

Let's see if this works, Lily thought to herself, putting down her spoon and cocking her head slightly as she looked directly into Syf's blue eyes, "I wouldn't say we eat them, but should they stray out of line, there is never a shortage of spirits to summon who would perform that function for us. Despite whatever you may have heard, we are a civilised culture and recognise that each drow has a function: males are for breeding and females are for pleasure; in the most advanced cultures the two activities are kept quite separate. Only animals are unable to tell the difference."

In a perverse sort of way, Syf had to admit to herself that she did not entirely disagree, "Sounds rational enough."

Outstanding - Lily thought, her brave new world was becoming ever clearer.

"Excuse my unfamiliarity with your customs, but are you a priestess?" Lily asked, riding her luck to probe deeper.

"So to speak," Syf said, taking a seat at the table, her interest piqued, "but I like to consider myself a paladin of the faith as well."

"I too, trained as a priestess, but our Goddess is fickle and bestows favours with the ease with which she withdraws them." The bitterness in Lily's comment was palpable.

"I guess no one can take the faith of others for granted, not even the gods." Syf's conscience inevitably led the paladin's thoughts to Friyya. The less she thought about complications regarding that particular situation, the better.

"Precisely, things change and fall apart. There is no use dragging memories around like childhood toys."

"Fortune favours the brave, right?"

"No, the swift and clever. But fortune has clearly favoured you, "flattery, Lily thought, was another social constant that varied little between cultures, "are you that other woman's patron?"

"What, Friyya? No..."

"Yet you are intimate." Lily explored.

"Yes, but I don't think it's only a professional relationship...I mean she's a member of my detachment, but she's also my lover. The two things are separate."

"How so?" Lily asked, incredulous.

"Nevermind. Let us just say that I don't hold or command her in any way. I like to think of it as a relationship between equals."

Now this is strange, Lily thought, "But if you are a militant priesthood, then there must be a chain of command."

"There is," Syf specified, allowing herself the indulgence of a quiet chuckle, "but I don't think it extends into the bedroom."

Why in the Abyss not? Was Lily's only thought as she pondered the day's discoveries. It appeared that she had underestimated the complexity of surface cultures.

***********

The fencing ground was in surprisingly excellent condition, Marséna thought as she parried the incoming thrust of Virginia's training sword, Syf must have really been cracking her whip. Though she could often best Virginia in practise, it was not as a result of superior technique. On the contrary, Marséna had adopted a less conventional stance which inclined her to a more fluid, flexible style which, combined with her sharp senses and intuition, made her a frustrating and, most importantly, unpredictable opponent. That morning, though, she was not exactly feeling her best.

"You're hung over." Virginia commented as her opponent moved forward into a counter attack. She knew Marséna would shift from a high to a low attack and readied her guard accordingly.

"A little." It had been a while since she had drank much wine and the half (or was it two thirds?) bottle from the previous night was taking its toll.

"If only Isobel knew..."

"You're not going to tell on me, are you?" Marséna said sardonically.

"Are you still angry about yesterday?" Virginia said, realising too late that Marséna had easily bypassed her attempt at parrying and landed the wooden practise sword with full force on the blonde paladin's exposed lower thigh. Virginia crumpled to the ground, the pain was searing, "I'll take that as a yes." She gasped through gritted teeth.

"What's really depressing is, that didn't make me feel better." Marséna said coolly, offering a hand to lift Virginia to her feet, "Can you continue?"

"No." Virginia said, grimacing in pain. Marséna really had not held back, "You took quite a swing there."

"Even with a headache, I'm more than a match." Marséna said, smiling a little, "Come," she said, allowing Virginia to hook an arm around her neck for support, "I'll help you to the infirmary."

Hobbling painfully, Virginia was all too eager to sit back on the first bed she could find in the cool, empty infirmary. The sounds of continued fencing drills could be heard from outside. In the meanwhile, Marséna opened the ornate wooden medicine cabinet that lay against the wall of the infirmary, withdrawing a stoppered flask containing blue healing salve and a clean, muslin cloth. The raven-haired paladin knelt in front of Virginia's bed to inspect the wound: it was already beginning to form a very substantial bruise and there was some bleeding from a long but shallow cut.

Virginia sighed in relief as Marséna began to work some of cool, numbing salve into the wound. A soft, balsamic smell filled the air as Marséna's hands worked diligently.

It was Virginia who finally decided to break the silence, "I don't think I was fair to you yesterday, I'm sorry."

"Why?" Marséna said, still preoccupied with her task. The feeling of Virginia's slimly muscled thigh against her fingers was one of the sensations she had missed the most in recent times. That and the blonde paladin's simple fabric tunic had ridden up somewhat, laying more of the beautiful, pale leg bare. Marséna tried very hard to concentrate on the medical task at hand, though the salve was already taking effect, slowly clearing the bruising away.

"I think...I think I hurt you."

"We'd spend our lives apologising if all the pain we ever caused to others had to be accounted for." Marséna said, not without ironic reference to their current situation.

"Well, it's always an honour to be beaten by the best." Virginia conceded. The familiar, firm touch of Marséna's hands was reassuring and, from her vantage point, she could not help but admire the inky blackness of the girl's hair and the rich, iodine tan of her skin.

Marséna looked up and smiled warmly, "So I don't need to apologise?" She asked, her hands still on Virginia's thigh even though the bruise was long gone.

"No." Virginia replied, her heartbeat accelerating.

"Can I make it up to you?" Marséna said as she planted a sensual, wet kiss on Virginia's thigh.

The contact was electric: it was if Virginia's heartbeat echoed throughout her body and mind, "I don't think that's a good idea...we have enough trouble to sort out as it is." In the meanwhile, Marséna was bringing her kisses inexorably higher.

"Please, this isn't wise..." Virginia's voice trailed off into a sharp intake of air as Marséna's hand travelled upwards to run a slender finger down the moistened slit of her sex, gathering the moisture like beads of dew.

"That's not what she says." Marséna replied smugly, provocatively cleaning Virginia's nectar off her finger with a luxuriant swipe of the tongue.

"Marséna, please, if this is to be, let it be at the right time." Virginia said, expending all her willpower to take Marséna's hands into her own and lift the dark-haired paladin up to face her, "But please, be patient. Each has her own time and it would just hurt more afterwards if we made love here and now."

Nodding in resigned agreement, Marséna allowed herself to be taken into Virginia's embrace. She knew Virginia to be the wiser navigator of emotions and, as much as she hated to admit it, often trusted the other woman's judgements more than her own, "You were pretty wet, though." Marséna teased.

"You know that I've always found you beautiful." Virginia with a slightly embarrassed grin as she kissed Marséna softly on the lips, "and you've always given me wonderful memories."

"So what happened to us, ma baudesa?"

"It's been so long since you've called me that."

"That's because there's been no joy since you decided on taking another path."

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

- I remember -

Night - which in Sigil meant dark grey verging on pitch blackness. Virginia and Marséna were still novices, though they would be Consecrated soon. They used to go to the Temple's communal bath for privacy. Marséna was always the more passionate, impatient one, almost slamming Virginia against the hard, cool, damp marble wall. The sound of water in the pool lapping in slow, unhurried waves was the only complement to their ragged breathing. They kissed with eager, youthful passion, Marséna stripping her tunic off and virtually tearing Virginia's open. The dark haired girl's breasts were magnificent, Virginia thought, even in the dimmest light of the chamber she could admire them in their tense, generously firm, rounded glory, nipples hard, brown like coffee in milk. She needed Marséna as much as she herself was needed, but Virginia preferred her passions to mature subtly before bursting out.

Virginia kissed back breathlessly, pressing her body against Marséna's, fighting back. She lavished her tongue on Marséna's sublime breasts, savouring the olive skin, hungrily mouthing the stiff nipples, impudently erect in the cool, humid air. Breaking the kiss, Marséna hastily unfolded the the cloth-wrapped bundle which Virginia had brought with her, revealing an intricately carved and elongated olisbos, specially conceived for two women to share and mildly enchanted to reproduce the firm pliability of real flesh. Marséna slid one end of the implement into Virginia's sodden sex, eliciting an immediate, desperate gasp from the blonde paladin. The enchantment of the shaft allowed it to be physical and sensual bridge between a couple, transmitting sensations and stimulation. Thus, when Marséna gripped the exposed surface of the olisbos, a wave of tight, tense pleasure filled Virginia's belly.

Still pressing Virginia against the wall, Marséna began to work the other end of the dildo into her, slowly at first so as to agonise Virginia's anticipation, before finally relenting and sliding herself resolutely down the shaft. Virginia gave a sharp cry, Marséna's lips were on her throat now, as she felt the raven-haired girl begin to move her hips, thrusting herself against the intruder buried deep in her sodden sex. Pinned against the wall, Virginia had no choice but to absorb the waves of sensation filtering through the shaft inserted in the innermost recesses of her sex. She felt the pulsations vibrate maddeningly against her most sensitive spot hidden deep within her canal, just as the little sensory impulses teased the stiff little bud of her clitoris.

But with the contractions of her own sex, Virginia could also feel Marséna's whose mute, rhythmic cries settled in the form of hot breath and soft vibration against the sensitive skin of the blonde paladin's neck. Virginia felt a knot tighten between her legs, deep in her pelvis and she knew she would not last long, Marséna's thrusting was frantic, the perfect form of the dark-haired paladin's slender thighs and flat belly was magnificent as it strained against her lover's paler skin. Virginia seized the opportunity to explore Marséna's breasts, hips and the delicious, feminine curve of her bottom.

Marséna reached her peak first, the meticulously carved surface of the olisbos tugging at the cherry-red inner lips of her sex had become intolerable. Lost in a flurry of passion, her raven-black hair spilling over Virginia as Marséna lunged forward, impaling herself, crying out her lust and love in long, strangled breaths against her lover's breasts. The sensory assault generated by Marséna's orgasm overcame Virginia almost immediately afterwards, as the blonde paladin felt the knot between her thighs suddenly loosed, her limbs becoming like liquid as she whispered Marséna's name into the girl's ear, before being compelled to bite down, hard, on a sun-kissed shoulder to prevent the sounds of the outpouring of her pleasure from travelling too far around the Temple.

"Make me yours," Marséna said breathlessly, kissing up Virginia's neck, "I want only you to fill me until there is nothing left to take."

Marséna withdrew from the dildo and kissed Virginia fiercely on the lips, her teeth bit down maliciously on the blonde paladin's chin and jawline. The effect was immediate as Virginia felt a surge of ferocity building up in her. She seized Marséna roughly by the hair, pulling up the girl's chin so she could have access to the exposed neck. Virginia adored the saline residue of Marséna's sweat mingled with the clean, citrus breeze of her lover's perfume. It was a marriage of flavours which never failed to make Virginia's blood quicken.

Now firmly in control, Virginia spun Marséna around, forcing her face first against the wall, one hand hooked around the raven-haired paladin's torso to clasp a supple, perfectly balanced breast and to feel the throbbing heartbeat underneath. Virginia bit down on Marséna's shoulder as the Mareterran spread her thighs to allow her lover better access. Virginia did not need further invitation and took the exposed half of the olisbos and placed its wet, flared tip between the divine hills of Marséna's sculptural bottom. Marséna mewled in anticipation as she felt the pressure of Virginia's hips build on the tight, puckered ring of her bottom and then bit down on her lower lip in mixed shock and pleasure as she felt the shaft penetrate her.

At first ,Virginia took it slow, knowing better than to rush this particular form of intimacy. It was so much better savoured with slow, deliberate thrusts which drew out the most endearing little startled breaths from Marséna's rich lips. But the sensation for Virginia was exquisite, too, the dildo communicating the heat, pressure and tightness of Marséna's delectable bottom.

Feeling fully opened, exposed vulnerable to her lover, Marséna could only bite down harder on her bottom lip, little gasps escaping her each time Virginia thrust in. She felt the impulses from the olisbos course through the thin membrane which separated the inner recesses of her bottom with the secret spot deep within her sex. Behind her, she felt Virginia emit a sharp, guttural cry and felt the waves of her lover's pleasure like a great primordial sea overwhelming her.

Marséna collapsed forward, her empty sex and aching bottom contracting spasmodically, the marble of the wall cool on her cheek. Virginia cupped the raven-haired paladin's chin in her fingers and tilted her head slightly so she could kiss her. She then withdrew the dildo gently first from Marséna's bottom and then from her sex, before they both collapsed against the wall, holding one another in an intimate embrace.

"I'm in love with you." Marséna said softly, her breath still a little short as she gathered Virginia's head in her arms.

"Me too." Virginia replied, not really pondering the nature of her lover's statement.

"I mean, I couldn't imagine myself being with anyone else, now or ever." Marséna's voice had that rich, thick passion which both stimulated and, at times, frightened Virginia.

"I love you, child, but there is still so much time. There is so much we have yet to see."

"Is my love not enough for you?" Marséna's voice had a trace of indignity in it.

"Of course it is, but at our age...it's too early to be thinking of that."

Marséna stared sullenly at the floor. Virginia tried to comfort her, placing tender kisses on her friend's cheek, but, with regret, felt it moisten beneath her lips.

"Let's get back to bed." That was the last thing Marséna said that night. Instead of climbing into Virginia's bunk - for then they slept communally - as she had almost always done, Marséna slept alone. There was no fight, no loud crying, no recrimination. Nothing but a change in the relationship everyone had assumed to be on very solid foundations. Soon they forgot their bitterness, but never remembered the heights of their passion.

That fateful night Virginia dreamed. She was alone in a field of golden, ripe wheat, so high it reached beyond her elbows. The air was rich with a herbal, floral scent, the sky open and turquoise with not a single cloud in it. The sun, rich and intense as she had never seen it with her eyes captured the ears of wheat, which waved only slightly in the cool breeze that came from the ocean which Virginia could not see, but hear and smell. Then, all of a sudden, in front of her was Marséna, in a simple, flimsy white peasant dress, her iodine-hued skin seemed to glimmer in the sun. She wore a coquettish wide-brimmed straw hat and she was smiling at Virginia, her hand extended.

Then, before she knew it, Virginia was on the ground, still moist and cool from the morning, Marséna by her side, lips locked in an eternal embrace, hands already fumbling to remove any offensive clothing. For the rest of the dream, they simply made love, spontaneously, passionately, surrounded by the golden wheat. Never had Marséna's lips or sex tasted so sweet, never had her cries been so melodic, never had her tongue been so dextrous as she lay between Virginia's thighs, her raven-black hair spread like a mantle around her.

When Virginia awoke, her face was covered in tears though she did not remember weeping the previous night. It was then she that, whatever happened, she would never stop loving Marséna. She could ignore loving her, perhaps, for some time, so that she would temporarily be like a sister to her. But the fact was always there and ultimately ineluctable, eternal like the Great Spire which held all the Planes of existence together.

*********

"You remember it?" Virginia said, breaking the silence, planting soft kisses on Marséna's hair.

"Yeah. Worst night of my life."

"Almost, you forget your first night in the novice's dormitory." Virginia insinuated, a smile returning to her lips.

"You little bitch..."

"I thought you were so cute, looking lost and homesick, but then you kept me up all night with your sniffling."

"I had a cold, it was fucking freezing." Marséna said defensively, though inside she was happy that she and Virginia were joking again.

"Never bought that one, never will, I was on the bunk on top of yours, so I think I had a pretty good view."

"You do remember what happened to anyone who mentioned that, don't you?" Marséna said with mock menace.

Virginia could hardly suppress her laughter, "Of course, you sent Friyya to the infirmary during fencing practise."

"So many memories. Goddess, this place has grown on us." Marséna said wistfully. Virginia was still laughing. Marséna, only a first year novice, had become an overnight legend: not even Syf had ever dispensed such a thorough thrashing on an opponent and Friyya, totally outclassed, was forced into sobbing out desperate apologies before Isobel stopped the bout. Of course, since it had been Friyya, Isobel limited herself to a stern, "Control yourself next time" and let the matter drop. Secretly, Virginia imagined, she may well have been quite pleased.

They left the infirmary laughing and Virginia felt her spirits lifted, as if she had been relieved of a great burden. Perhaps Lily could lift them still further. There was, however, still the issue of how she was going to address the very practical problem of having a dark elf stowaway in a temple of Goddess dedicated to the preservation of Good. But Virginia had been hatching a plot. If she could feasibly argue that Lily had become a renegade from her people on the grounds of a momentous cultural and moral shift in her alignment, then the Order of the Radiant Path would be obliged to provide shelter and assistance. Furthermore, Virginia's own efforts in securing this conversion would almost certainly be looked upon with great admiration.

Although her detachment was still of very junior rank - and leadership was consequently assigned on a rotational basis between the four of them -, Isobel had hinted that the appointment of a permanent squad leader was only a matter of time. Syf was generally considered to be the favourite in the running. Friyya was out of the question, of course, since Isobel had been charged with the decision and although the Vice-Commander had a very healthy respect for Marséna, she did not consider her leadership material. The unspoken competition was thus between Virginia and Syf. Not that Virginia wished to take anything away from the erstwhile model paladin, but she certainly would not turn down the squad leader role should the opportunity present itself.

The overall improvement in mood lasted well into the evening. Although Shesayne, sensitive ad temperamental as always, had absented herself again, repeatedly proclaiming that she was going to stay in Min's lodgings for the night in a - generally successful - ploy to irk Marséna, Virginia had seen it fit to entreat Lily to join them for dinner. Out of sheer, morbid and desperate curiosity the dark elf complied, only to be subjected to Marséna's curious stares and Friyya's self-conscious attempts to ignore her existence. They were a curious bunch, Lily decided, not uninteresting, though, since their power relationships were so complex to discern. If she had to be honest with herself, Lily could not actually detect any consistent hierarchy. Naturally, these things took time, though, and the drow were, by and large, a patient and constantly scheming race.

Virginia's cooking too, was buoyed by her optimism and she had laid out a modest feast for her comrades which culminated in a rich fresh fruit pastry which Lily found to be unutterably revolting but that the others seemed to appreciate very much indeed. Friyya, especially, who was busy tearing into her third portion.

"If all your admirers could see you now!" Virginia exclaimed in mock disgust.

"I'm allowed to." Friyya replied succinctly before taking another spoonful.

"You see, Lily," Virginia said so as to draw the dark elf, who had begun to lose interest in the meandering social interaction around her, into the conversation, "we have the honour of being in the presence of the highest object of this Temple's desire, whether they be novices, priestesses or paladins."

Friyya blushed slightly and Syf's heart swelled with pride though she gave no outward sign.

"You're flattering her, again, you know it goes straight to her head." Marséna muttered.

"So, what do the drow consider beautiful?" Syf asked suddenly, her curiosity had been stimulated by the morning's conversation with Lily.

"Well, power of course, generally speaking. But physically speaking, the body has to be proportioned but feminine." Each passing day, Lily felt more confident with the language, the words seemed to fit together even if when all four of her hosts - or was it jailors - started speaking, there were always a few seconds of confusion before her ears filtered out the words which composed the conversation.

"Feminine?" Friyya queried, not quite certain what that term would mean in a drow social context.

"Curved at the breasts and hips, but harmoniously so, we would say like the abdomen of a thillai-i spider."

Friyya had no idea of what manner of arachnid Lily was referring to, but had come to the conclusion that since the dark elves were a matriarchal society by definition, there was no need to mute femininity in order to gain social standing. Femininity, as it stood, was considered the source of potency. Indeed, though slender by human standards, Lily was certainly voluptuous for an elf.

"So, what's life actually like, living in a drow city? I mean we've read about yo...uh, your people, but I don't necessarily think the accounts were accurate." Friyya pressed.

"Do you play?" Lily replied.

"Sorry..."

"Cards or dice."

"You mean gamble?" Friyya ventured.

"Yes."

"No, never in my life."

"Not that you can remember." Marséna snorted.

"Anyway," Lily continued, "when you gamble, you enter with the expectation of winning. Often, when you win, you win very much and when you lose, the loss is just as dramatic. Some, who are loved by Fortune, continue winning no matter how many times they roll the dice. Some win, then lose and some lose then win. The point is, there is no uppermost limit, so some will keep playing, but there is a bottom limit, after which you are ejected from the game."

"So you never know the outcome of the next day." Syf ventured.

"Had I known that I had a losing hand, I wouldn't be here. But then it depends on your preferences, would you rather life a hundred days as a fly or a single day as a spider."

"I find it difficult to state a preference..." Friyya began, but was interrupted as Syf nudged her firmly with her elbow under the table.

"Now, allow me one question." Lily said.

"Please." Virginia invited.

"I would be interested in knowing your society better. I would like to fulfil, some...function. We drow are accustomed to seeing everything in terms of net gain and loss, so I would be willing to compensate you for your loss with my services. So, what is your pleasure?"

Friyya looked on, utterly stunned at the proposition. Though she clearly had a rather charming, polished facade, there was no way she could imagine a dark elf ever playing a constructive part in a society of any description - unless, of course, one called drow anarchy a society. For Lily, on the other hand, it as the opportunity to launch herself back into the working of things; she may have drawn a badly losing hand in the past, but finding Virginia as a patron was almost a godsend. Virginia was similarly enthused, finally she had the pretext to justify Lily's presence and, potentially, the opportunity to win further credentials in the eyes of her superiors. The situation, the blonde paladin thought, would be win-win.

"I'll see what I can find, then." Virginia promised. Marséna and Friyya could only exchange sceptical looks.

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

"Can't sleep either?" Syf inquired, as she sat next to Marséna on the steps that led down into the deserted fencing arena.

"Aren't you cold in your nightshirt?"

"Aren't you?"

Marséna's mind still struggled with the impossibility of her situation, with the sheer frustration of not being able to communicate with Shesayne and the even greater frustration of her ever-ambiguous relationship with Virginia. Everything was contorted and twisted beyond repair. In the end, however, Syf was the sort of person she could share a lonely, pensive night with.

"You always used to come here, whenever you had a problem and before you trusted Virginia enough to tell her."

"Life's cruel," Marséna commented bitterly, grateful at least to have Syf's reassuring arm around her shoulders, "when I was approved for Consecration, I still had Virginia as I wanted her, everything was getting easier by the day. Now, each moment that passes it becomes harder."

"You're telling me?" Syf said as she eased Marséna's head into her lap.

"What are you complaining about, you have Friyya?"

"She's perfect, I'm not." Answered Syf enigmatically.

"Glad you think so." Marséna sniped, rolling her eyes.

"Do you...uh, still happen to have a drop of that wine of yours?" Syf asked, feigning innocent curiosity.

"Fuck it, why not," Marséna decided, "I'm sure we can handle one between the two of us."

Sigil Book One, Chapter II

The sands of time are often unsettled. They seem to be subject to random movements, exposing that which should lay hidden and hiding that which, on all accounts, ought to come out to the light of day. Now, in our humble little narrative, those same sands are beginning to shift uncomfortably. They say you cannot escape your past, but that is inaccurate (quite aside from being platitudinous), because the past is not independent of your conscience. To want to escape the past and to bury some memories forever is like wanting to escape from yourself, and I don't think you can run from yourself even if you're riding on a githyanki skiff on the Astral Plane. Then, of course, evading the past defeats the purpose of life: the past is there precisely to tell you all the bloody stupid things you should not do in future. So we have links to the past, little reminders of lives we lived. Sometimes it is a dress, or a species of flower, or a phrase which we rescue from the night of time. Whatever the case may be, these are bridges not only with our previous - or future - selves, they are also, potentially, our most important bridges to others.

- The Archivist, your narrator

"O dignitosa coscienza e netta,

Come t'e' picciol fallo amaro morso!"

"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 the 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.

"C'mon, 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 man or - indeed - 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 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 mouth 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."

"Do not 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.

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

"Tomorrow, the ceremonies for your Consecration begins. Today, I have a curiosity I would like to leave satisfied. Everyone in the centre!" Isobel declared imperiously. She had been using Syf to illustrate the ideal forms of the appropriate stances, guards and attacks to be employed with the longsword and dagger. The dozen or so would-be-paladins gathered around nervously.

"Marséna, face Syf." A murmur spread through the group, only to be immediately silenced by Isobel's hand.

The raven-haired novice complied, the sword she had been using for practise still in hand. Unsure of what was happening, she could only stare in to Syf's impassive, piercing eyes. There was nothing to be read there, nothing to be known beyond that cool, perfectly collected exterior.

"Everyone else back!" Isobel ordered. Compliance was immediate as the group withdrew a few paces to allow Marséna and Syf a clear fencing circle.

"Present!"

Syf obeyed immediately and assumed a two-handed ready pose.

"But Reverend Sister, those are...uh, actual cold-wrought steel swords." Friyya protested.

Isobel spun around and was in front of Friyya in two strides, "Thank you for identifying my deficiencies in melee weapons recognition. Your comment is duly noted." With that, she brought down the braided leather cane - more like a whip - hard on Friyya's thigh. The auburn-haired novice crumpled, biting her lip to restrain her sobbing so as to minimise Isobel's satisfaction.. Virginia caught her and Friyya leaned into her friend for support.

"You never learn, do you?." Virginia reprimanded lightly, helping Friyya prop herself up.

"Save that for after curfew." Isobel snapped, "Now, back to where we were before I was deservedly corrected. Let's see what you two can show me. Marséna, en garde."

The Mareterran complied, though she assumed her usual unorthodox stance, body positioned laterally with respect to the opponent, relatively close to the ground, sword held forward in order to minimise the target and maximise reach.

"Engage!"

Marséna dived in first, trying to bring in her blade for a low cut across Syf's legs. She deliberately placed the flat of the sword out for the blow, thinking that whatever madness Isobel had concocted it was best to stay on the safe side of things. Syf, though, had already perceived the attack and parried with relative ease, locking blades with Marséna in an effort to capitalise on her superior physical strength. This was not a ploy Marséna would not fall for as she disengaged and continued her offensive through a series of low cuts, knowing Syf's defence to be weakest against sweeping, unpredictable attacks.

Isobel watched on, clearly intrigued. Syf was an excellent classic fighter, but Marséna's improvisation and use of intuition was simply commendable. As the fight wore on, the stylistic divergences of the two women was placed into ever greater relief: Syf cycled through her vast repertoire of standard guards, attacks and counter-attacks, but Marséna, though less technically gifted, fully deployed her natural perception and athleticism, frustrating even the most powerful of her opponents attacks by regularly breaking her fighting stance in an attempt to break the rhythm of a fight which, had it been kept to the strict rules of duelling, would evidently have favoured Syf.

Virginia could not remember ever having seen a bout like this. With Friyya held close at her side, she could feel the other woman's trepidation at each blow. Every time the swords rang when they met, the auburn-haired girl became tense, squeezing Virginia's arm and fearing the worst, while Virginia remained comparatively impassive, trusting Marséna and Syf to be reticent. On the fencing arena, though, both fighters were exhausted. Marséna felt her limbs on fire, her constant change of position in an attempt to unsettle Syf had cost her dearly in terms of muscular endurance, she was not sure she could keep it on much longer and, if confined to standard combat stances, she would almost certainly lose. Syf faced a similar quandary: on average she had expended far more force per blow than Marséna and knew she could not maintain that rhythm. The experience was doubly frustrating because every time she lunged, or slashed forward, Marséna invariably had a response. She was fast and read all of Syf's movements perfectly.

The exertion, however, began to take its toll and Syf, spying an opening in Marséna's defence, pressed her advantage, the sword cutting down with all the strength she could muster to send the Mareterran's weapon flying a couple of paces into the dust. Deciding to end the bout there and then, Syf moved forward to try to thrust her weapon unequivocally towards Marséna' s throat.

Marséna, however, had other ideas as she clasped the handful of earth and dust she had gathered in her hand the moment she had been disarmed and cast it, with expert skill, against Syf's face. Under ordinary circumstances, Syf would have tried, with much success, to resist the intense, burning discomfort of the sand and dust in her eyes, but, in her exhausted state, she could only clasp her face with her free hand for a few moments. That was long enough for Marséna to draw the dagger from her belt.

"Stop!" Isobel shouted. Though no one knew it then, she was shaken inside. Marséna had drawn the dagger as if she had really intended to throw it. Of course, these things happened in the heat of the moment, but she had trusted them both to contain themselves.

Striding up to the two panting combatants, Isobel hit Marséna across the face, hard, with the back of her hand, "You clumsy bitch! Do you want to kill someone? Get out of here before I eject you from the Order." The raven-haired woman remained kneeling, dazed, on the ground for a few short moments, before withdrawing, indignantly, to the Temple building.

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.

Isobel, on her part, was relieved. There would have been nothing worse for the Order than losing two of its most promising fighters. Which brought her to the question of why she had initiated the bout in the first place. Upon further consideration, Isobel decided that it was to be a test of maturity, to show them both that life was neither fair, nor painless, nor easy. Syf still needed to learn a lesson in humility, Isobel noted, and Marséna - well Marséna - was fascinating to watch, but she needed to learn discipline. In every sense of the word.

"Dismissed!" Isobel ordered and the last year novices dispersed gratefully, still stunned by what had transpired. Virginia lagged behind with Friyya hobbling under her arm.

"Friyya!" Isobel called just as Virginia thought that they were safe at the shaded entrance to the temple.

"Yes, Reverend Sister." Friyya said, wearily, turning around and preparing herself for further indignities.

"I don't make it my policy to enter into the personal lives of my students, but with you, I make an exception. Make sure you take care of Syf tonight, understood? That's an order."

Friyya nodded, "Yes, Reverend Sister." At least Isobel had a vaguely human side, though it was suppressed under so much metal and defensive wards, painted in red and orange across her face.

What Isobel regretted was that she could not tell Virginia the same thing with regards to Marséna. It was certainly not her place to tell the Mareterran what an excellent paladin she would make; Isobel was there to train and command, not to praise. That was best left to mothers and lovers.

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

Marséna sat sullenly alone in the baths of the Temple. Thankfully for her, there was no one to draw attention to her misery so she was free to commiserate with herself, hugging her knees in the shallow water of the edge of the great communal pool. First Virginia, now the bout, it all appeared as if she were on a losing streak of epic proportions. But then again, she was a double outsider. First, the majority of the Order was of Ortho extraction, leaving her to stick out quite evidently in her class. Second, she played by the rules only insofar as it was efficient. In fencing, she knew that her physique and capabilities were best suited to a quick, fluid and unpredictable style, though the others had been slow to appreciate that. Most of all, Marséna missed the open fields, the green-brown hills, the vineyards and olive groves, the colourful citrus orchards of Mareterra, not to mention the comforting tones of her own language.

"I think you won." Syf conceded as she settled into the great marble tub next to Marséna. Isobel's words and hand still stung her.

"Shut up." Marséna said, between gritted teeth, her throat knotted, "Shut up and come here."

Syf obliged, sidling closer, the shallow water lapping around her knees. Marséna leaned her head against Syf's shoulder.

"You're good." Syf repeated, "Had it been a real fight, you would have won."

"I'm glad you think so. Sometimes I feel like a complete fucking idiot here."

"Your mouth! And you're exaggerating. I don't think there is anyone here who does not admire you. And even if everyone were against you, I would always be at your side. I was honoured to fence against you today and it's an honour to be in your same detachment."

"I've had a bad last couple of weeks." Marséna sniffed,

"I know, but tomorrow our life will change and I am privileged to be Consecrated at your side." Syf confessed, wrapping an arm around Marséna's waist.

"Promise?"

"Promise." Syf reassured, "Now get into the bath, we really ought to get the sweat and dust out."

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

"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 crow 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, or 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 Shesayn'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 practise.

"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 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." Friyya's 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 gentle pressure of Friyya's teeth on one of her exposed nipples.

Friyya replied by applying gentle pressure with her tongue against the engorged little peak, all the while alternating the pressure of her teeth and lips. Syf felt heat like electricity between her legs, 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, aching wetness. Sinking lower, her tongue trailing down Syf's belly as she undid the tunic, inch by inch, Friyya 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 rich, painted lips, "Have you returned victorious?"

"You could say so." Syf sighed, stroking Friyya's silky, autumnal tresses.

"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. 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 folds, each spot receiving careful, loving attention. Syf just hoped that she wouldn't slam too loudly against the door. 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 her clitoris, with two pale, delicate writer's fingers holding the petals of her sex open. Syf could only grit her teeth and clasp Friyya's head in her hands, fingers sliding through those magnificent strands 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 lip rouge.

"I think I should be responsible for cleaning it up, then." Syf said 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 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 sex. Pressing her 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 sex, Syf could hear the girl moan softly into her ear. For her part, the dark haired paladin was more concentrated on Friyya's chest, the thin, flimsy material of the saffron-orange dress easily brushed aside to reveal the perfection of beautifully rounded, harmoniously full breasts. 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, 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.

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 sex, tight 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 came 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 enjoying Friyya's last, thrilling little cries.

Settling atop her lover, head resting between Friyya's breasts, her short, ink-black hair spread like a shadow over the paleness of the skin beneath it and the 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 applying to 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, 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, by contrast, 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 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?"

On cue, her bunk would have some letter, sometimes anonymous sometimes signed, some flower or some combination thereof. Sometimes it was a matter of three or four consecutive days of useless, embarrassing presents. In reality it was pointless for her admirers to even try. She would certainly not be swayed by clumsy attempts at courtship and less still by empty declarations which ranged from the crude to the incomprehensible. Friyya, however, was a gracious person and always declined advances with great magnanimity. Older novices tried to convince her that it would be in her best interest to choose one of them, but there would have been no dignity, insofar as she was concerned, in such an arrangement.

Thankfully she had come under no such pressure from anyone in her dormitory cubicle. Virginia was already building bridges with Marséna and Syf was, regrettably, far too in love with her sword to consider devotion to anything else. Then, there was Marséna: they both slept in the bottom bunk of their respective beds and Friyya was certain that she had once caught Marséna surreptitiously admiring her from across the cubicle, curled up with her hands sliding as subtly as possible between her legs and pretending to sleep. But then that did not come entirely as a surprise to her; Friyya had been referred to as a classic Ortho beauty and she no doubt filled the dreams of quite a few other novices as well. But her frustration had become an element of the long-running sensation that she was not being taken seriously, but had merely become the prize in yet another of long-running rivalries which formed between aspirant paladins. Marséna had told her, cruelly, that there had been bets placed on who would bed her first. Friyya had retorted, quite appositely, that those kinds of competition were more like something the boys of Marséna's village would indulge in as opposed to novitiates of the Order of the Radiant Path.

Marséna's poisonous little lies aside, Friyya was becoming progressively more irritated with the situation. Kneeling by the side of her bed on a lazy feast day afternoon, she carefully gathered an unsigned letter and a bunch of rather exotic looking flowers with petal like diamonds. These she stored in a simple ceramic vase - there was no use in letting good flowers go to waste - whilst the letter was unceremoniously dealt with in three sharp tears, reducing it each time in half. In the bunk above Syf rested, half asleep. Taking off her boots and loosening her tunic a little, Friyya lay back, propped up on a pillow. Perhaps she would read, perhaps not.

"Syf..." Friyya tried, her voice almost a whisper.

"Hmm." Syf stirred.

"Do you think Virg and Marséna tried to sneak out of Quarters?"

"Probably." Syf replied, disinterested, but mentally preparing to intervene on their behalf should they be caught and caned by Isobel.

"What are you doing tonight?"

"Nothing."

"Why don't you come down here, it's so impersonal talking to you through your mattress."

Syf leapt down in one bound; Friyya had always found the dark-haired girl's commanding posture and athletic reflexes fascinating.

"Come here, sit down," Friyya invited, moving over her bunk to room for Syf, "we might as well keep each other company."

Syf complied, stretching herself out on Friyya's bed, relieving her muscles of the stiffness of inactivity.

"Another admirer?" Syf inquired, noting the flowers.

"Yes, but at least they keep the room decorated." Friyya replied tersely. Though their friendship had matured in the last three years since they had first met as roommates, Friyya was afraid that the

attention she was receiving would give Syf the impression that she was somehow a vain and superficial person.

"They don't deserve you." Syf muttered, staring at the mattress on top of her.

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

"You are. Very." Syf said, and would have added painfully had it not sounded so abject.

"Thank you, it means so much more when you say it."

"Why?" Syf asked, bemused.

"Because I admire you and I wish I were more like you: strong, respected."

"Thank you." Syf, however, was clearly taken aback by the compliment.

"So why did you never court me?"

"Because it would not have been my place. I'm hardly in your...class."

"You're joking! I find you very..." Friyya began indignantly.

"Not in the same way." Syf interrupted.

"There's a school of philosophy, Syf," Friyya began tentatively, "which says that only what is whole and complete can be beautiful. An arm or leg cannot be beautiful unless measured as a

proportion of a whole, so, right now, I don't feel all this radiance in me which everyone else seems to admire. I feel like I still have some great, empty void to fill."

"Friyya?" Syf did not have a mind for philosophy, but the apparent inclination of her friend's argument was clear enough.

"What I would like to say is that I feel far more luminous sitting here, right next to you which is why I told you that you were..."

"Friyya..." Syf relented softly. If this was a dream, the cynical part of her mind told her that her cotton undergarment would be very damp indeed when she woke up.

"What would you do if I asked you to kiss me?" Friyya asked, her whisper layered with emotion.

"I..." This was the first time Syf had felt confused and flustered in a long time. Her normally dispassionate exterior had softened.

"Kiss me."

Syf complied, passionately but clumsily, positioning herself above Friyya, their lips locking fiercely - Syf's tongue eager and curious but inexperienced in her newfound lover's mouth. For the dark-haired novice, though, the world had stopped. Fire shot up her spine and her skin tingled with latent electricity as she was overwhelmed by a great surge of raw, smouldering emotion which filled her breast and loins with boundless energy.

"I'm sorry," Syf said, breathlessly, finally breaking the kiss she thought had lasted hours, "I'm not that practical..."

Friyya silenced her with a delicate finger to the lips, "We'll learn together. But now it's been decided. You've made me yours and yours alone. And," the auburn-haired beauty said, a wide smile forming on her perfect lips, "I expect you to defend my honour and your own."

Syf nodded gratefully, her mind racing. In her fevered thoughts, she would be Friyya's sword and shield, her lover and her knight-at-arms, "I too pledge myself to you."

"That," Friyya concluded, "is wonderful, because I know that you would die before breaking your word."

No one ever bothered courting Friyya again.

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

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 relax