A flavor like the sun, in the palm of your hands? Putting that warmth on your tongue…
After the storm of strangeness when seeking treats abated for most, the one beset by the strangest emotions of all had kept underfoot even when the not-prince withdrew his graces from her.
Maybe, think about that? To achieve the perfect berrybread, one even those who don’t like bread might…?
Until the very start of the gloom of Ysanne, when they tread past the dim white reaching the village’s perimeter, a chase so slowly started became fleet upon tail to escape the heavy propositions!
Especially the… humans. Oh, won’t you share it, mighty one, your perfect taste? Globs of sun a day melting in their mouths, that’ll make them happy!
When legends speak of being led astray from destiny, it is usually by monsters masquerading as the innocent.
… DESTINY REVEALS!
When the monstrous was kin, fortunate it was that the not-prince began to smile as if he couldn’t even hear the sudden scream from behind.
It wasn’t kin-like to, with maddening energy, act compelled to pounce, no!
Sent here, long, so long! You, my ultimate reward after endless nothing, worth that wait!
But the wait earned only falling treecones that crushed upon this screeching singsong’er!
The not-prince that escaped was what this clawing-upon-the-moss, not-kin terror sought even as many watchers dragged back ever toward the village’s core…
We’ll save the whoooooOOOOOLE
WORLD WITH YOUR…!
Ever pleasant, mild and restrained, such feelings of a grower’s were what later races would call a mask; but, a worried kin could only see as a seed’s shell fit over what would explode if exposed to a single gust.
SOLAR FLAVORRRRRRRRrrrrrrrrrrrr———!
(Not kin… not if like this, so violent!)
Away from this creature they escaped.
For once, the beguilements of kin to keep him from seeing made sense.
Who led them after was instead…
“Priestess?”
(I’m not one anymore. Please, please stop calling me that…)
And so a new companion finally does halt when bursts out; a polite smile frowning deeply, then turning away proves that it’s felt.
“… More, much more…” Upon the next gnarled rung of roots, the only genuinely calm kin left in Ysanne curls fingers toward the one lagging in pursuing joy.
“… your stories to me are shadowed curiosities.” It’s after Mython steps easily the distances of a meter gap at a time, then lands upon a larger root to leap many meters more by the grasping vault of one hand, that Ave has to wake up to keep their conversation going. “Gathering our companion trees together, what fun is found from being so close as you’d expect? Rare, wanting to be bound each day when the next may be so different… outside.” With rapidity while calling back, Mython’s expected kin-like grace spins this kin toward the titanic monument drawing closer.
The twisting outreaches of smaller channeling branches of mighty Ysanne meet from four directions at this mismatching-to-the-forest monument.
But, because it would be too easy just to walk or soar toward what the forest calls destiny, their journey demands balance, lest they tumble into the vast sky between!
(A very… numbing situation!)
So a heroine talks instead of thinking! “As the sages of the great Myths do, accomplishing much fun would you! Many trees, one purpose, uniting pursuit of the new, refinement of old! With the unity of breaths singing as one, seeking beautiful mysteries!” So that trees aren’t all that may gather at this monument, a living example flows up the vertical roots with a swish to join her kin. A few finger pulls of this heroine’s hand makes the distance shrink, then a bounce off the tail shaves more off; until finally, an unworthy heroine feels it’s okay just to shimmy a bit in mid air to get thrown sideways to the gnarled limbs winding beside Mython.
Not nearly as graceful it feels to do as to watch, to climb like this when two others are so—
“How is that not using the wind?” From above, the most intrepid climber calls back.
Sweating and jerking up over the jutting-out cliff that a bridge has been forced to become by intentional orientation changing, it is this emperor of black skies that she’s been ever chasing.
“I… just wiggled in my jump, there was no wind or spirit aid.” Ave’s response sends him leering in disbelief unneeded!?
“That’s the [Grace of the Dancer’s Own] bestowed to kin.” Mython clarifies! “Pellaeon’s descendants shall be within reach of all heights, naught but a hop, skip, or jump’s effort needed.” Mython nods at the obvious that is spoken of. “Pellaeon’s bestowal to her, though, is… most graceful.” A look askance after carries such unneeded judgment, though!
“I’ll believe that she can fling that much mass off of a single hand hold or her tail just briefly touching. I’m used to Zennia’s oddness by now. BUT!” An emperor wags his finger while huffing! “Directly sideways? With her entire tail off of NOTHING!? How’s that believable as average!?” Yelling that indignantly, full of reprisal that makes a heroine’s cheeks blush, immediately after the glowering not-prince’s frown breaks into a smile.
“Come, Ave! The fun means never stopping, especially if you’re cheating to win.”
(I’m not trying to win, and…!?)
Shedding sweat in sheets from his effort, this bare-stripped fey lord’s thick muscles strain further to abandon recriminations! “Climb! Climb, with all your might! We’re almost to Mython’s mysterious place.” As a monkey again, with great leaps hand-over-hand he obeys his own order while breathing as a roaring bellows; but, keeping always the serenity of wind whistling through pine needles with how he measures that breath!
(Rather than fly, or simply walk, it’s more fun to stress and feel danger? Only Adris could be this free…
But, I’m not cheating, either!)
“Only in… one home of kin have I witnessed this joining of small trees to greater: in oldest Devaunu.”
“Devaunu? Oldest!?” And so she’s squiggling up the bridge anew with Mython close, ever with more questions as the two talk longer than either have before now. “It was only born at the end of the Second Age! That resort that the council bade be grown so that we’d spread the wild forests’ culture of symbiosis? Its sole purpose was to entice those who visited to join the Coalition of the Free Peoples of Zennia!”
“Resort, is it?” Mython’s smallness becomes like a squirrel’s when hugging onto the branches currently occupied, halted by that word. “Just… all it is in your mind?”
“Surely that small place is wonderful as an… example of our greatness to lesser peoples! But, we proud kin grew mighty Anakar, our current capital after Mandostesse was lost to the darkness that claimed the Land of Aun!” A hand raises to her own eyes, shining with wonder at the memory from Rouvenor’s tale of its vast heights! “With its twin pearl towers higher than any mountain, each holding an immense amber eye whose sight unveils the future of kin, there can be found HUNDREDS of great sage trees beneath that are fused from many more hundred companion trees, or, or…?”
(That Anakar brought all that we could save from Mandostesse makes it superior! Those eyes let the high council foresee the Alchemaster’s return in the Second Age…)
Ave braces against the cliff to start raising fingers to count other wonders.
“Hyperia is another capital for the water-teasing sages, green-and-blue jewel of the far south enshrined within the sand. It’s our great hope to obliterate the deserts and rebuild the ruined realm of Leine! Or, well, think of Kainan’s old home, Salleus Evard, which within its dark grove rests the ‘nevernight’ capital of solar wonders, Trestolan!
Its warmth, a duty that halts the encroach of the polar north ever southward!
Its winds, a constant shining with the aurora borealis that we draw from to craft our starlight rods wielded by…!?”
The excitement is too much, so much huffing is needed to stop rambling!
“B-Between all of these, and the many other great Myths hiding deep within old forests all around us, the paths to them lying in the sylvan ways only we know to reach, why only Devaunu? Should not kin gather their trees together for great works in so many greater forest homes, for endless greater purposes promised to we who were firstborn?”
“… Aside… from Salleus Evard, which has itself been claimed by the… deathly scourge of the winter lands so many seasons ago…” An interruption in the stillness of the gloomy Ysannian twilight is quite muted; but, another elf’s shock is still visible despite it when Mython, too, becomes the feeling of cold rain. “And, hardly not this… ‘solar city’ which I’ve never heard spoken of, I…” Mython’s head fiercely shakes left and right! “No, Devaunu would be our fairest, for, is it not our only wondrous home left? All the Myths I’ve also never heard of you’ve said, they must’ve become ash so long ago. Other places kin do thrive in, though all our ancient lands have vanished into the great dark. But, much of our refuges have also passed out of our reach by invasion of others. Of these places left, they are…?”
More than any spear!
(They’re… all gone?)
The heartache, being stabbed could not be so painful!
“We seclude and keep well out of sight, for what is outside may invade if noticed. So, how can our trees gather to become tall if they must be hidden, and how can we think to devote toward… ‘purpose’ when fleeing at the wind’s warnings whenever we must? Such a heavy word, ‘purpose’, when, just think! There are already so many pleasures for us to seek out now, and later, filling our own breaths with life ever enjoyable without needing ‘heavy’ thoughts?”
… Gravity is also painful, because if shock were to rightly take a pathetic elf from the wall she clings to, only down, further down into despair could she fall …
(Only the most joyous and least responsible for other duties gathered at Devaunu to woo other races? How can… everything else be so gone, but that place endures!?)
… Enduring is hard once you endure too much, for even songs fail …
… After so much wrong, nothing outside seems magical, and the rhymes within have all been forgotten …
“But… but, you’re devoted yourself to the art of the singing needle. Purpose, isn’t yours tailoring, even if you’ve never given a completed work awa—?”
“… my need is different, not heavy, or ‘purposeful’!” Mython’s eyes go eagle sharp, a rage like boiling poison spilling forth when the elf creeps sideways so near to Ave!? “‘Purpose’ sounds insulting of my DRIVING DESIRE! That I sing and weave, to make better the…!?” Calming, Mython soothingly sings with hand lifted!
“He… this noble one… he has made true my ever taunting visions, brings them… to fruition each time he wears…!” Mython’s awe is innocent, then troubled…?
“… but not today, when yesterday was so wonderful.
Why do you not hide what must be hidden, to bare only what is best of you, glorious one?
Abandoning what I made only for you, so that you are no longer… made better by wearing it?”
(Why would a kin’s smile be painful to witness?)
“Did it fail to ‘unleash’ your true self…?” That smile twists like blighted roots! “Must I do more, ever more?”
All stare between each other at Mython’s confusion: the not-prince’s equally sharp gaze coming with his sweat tripling without any extra effort. Alarm rings in his ears like scared birds calling; then, maybe… those birds turn sad, mournful?
“Ave, questions aren’t what I taught you to offer when it’s dangerous.” Smiling again, this remark is a balm for pain that needs no hand to apply, only words!
(Answers help. I should… explain, because sharing, knowing is what may soothe Mython’s heart.)
Adris taught her many wonderful things like this. If Mython’s knowledge is lacking, then all she must do is share the truth to replace this strangeness!
But…?
“About what… thoughts to share, Adris?”
“Ahaha, so cute you are always.” Being called cute is painful! “Despite elves being so simple, why can’t you all just chat? A topic, then…?” Winking at her while also sneering so aggressively, Adris turns back to climbing.
“Mithril?” His last word is easy enough to chat about when offhandedly provided.
(I know a lot!)
“It’s the first gift of the forest for honoring its sanctity, and for kin it is abundant and ever-renewing.”
“… It… is NOT!?” Mython’s gasp wakes Ave, for the tailor stares at bare breasts with too much concentration and makes a tail quiver!? “Renewing, yes, but the glamorous bodysuit that you shined in, what sparkled of purest mithril, would take so much of the wind’s gift for a CENTURY to sew it! Only deep within the last ancient groves do the winds once a season at moon’s fullness coax mithril into form. As dew that gathers upon heartwood in the cold morning, we cherish it. Elsewhere, only in the darkest Demesnes is it also secreted by bloody fey, but their intent? To lure the foolish into becoming temporary toys!”
(Bloody fey?)
“Of sunlight and deep mist, these are the only fey that visit with us, Mython. Which of these know you that should be fascinated by… blood?”
“There are… very few of the deep mist willing to come when called, and only of the red court of fey eager to meet us should we dare to speak. Which would love the sun? What a strange thought.”
“No, that’s…? But, never mind the fey. The wind does make mithril when moon-touched, it’s true, but it’s also a material any elf can make with time and wind’s aid?” For a kin’s head to tilt so far that it might tumble straight downward is dangerous right now, so Ave explains faster! “My bodysuit took many seasons, yet that was because the wind that played was weak! With enough gathered, I sung the singing needle that softened its tension to become…?”
A terrible spider sidles sideways, looming over a snake clinging on!?
Owl-wide opened eyes stare, head still tilted like a monster’s!
“… Both forming and weaving pure mithril, know you all secrets of our holiest treasure, oh mightiest goddess of ancient kin?” Hungry, salivating, this strange kin is scary!
(Mithril isn’t even the rarest thing I can make!)
“I’m not a goddess! Only Pellaeon’s praise shall be spoken!” But, other treasures will never be spoken of now, not even as a legend passed on as Ave rejects this mood. “Nor am I a priestess! And…” Too close Mython is for no reason, panting! “Yes, I’m not adept at it, but I’m blessed with knowledge of both things you ask about…
Why? Won’t you with time also learn from the mithril I gave away how to cra—?”
“MY BREATH, YOURS TO SHACKLE FOR ALL ETERNITY, IF ONLY TO LEARN THE TRUTH OF MITHRIL NOOOOOOOOW!”
Bowing with artful nose to the branch cliff, a free spirit pledges evil slavery.
(Not to learn, but to do. I don’t understand, Papa.)
“If that would be fanciful for you, fofofo-ofof… of course.” Mython quickly mews this.
“You don’t want to know the joy of discovering?”
“The pleasure of weaving it, as no other has yet! Quickly, please!”
(Rouvenor’s tale showed kin so happy to try, to persist, and to succeed by their own merits as a prize of effort? But, instead…?)
For a kin to ask how, there is only one response known.
“…
… I’ll show you.”
“Whe—!?”
“S-o-o-n.”
“Together forever, always as your will ordains!”
“… Don’t need.”
“By your fancy! Away, away, ignored like the stinkiest fart~!” Respectfully distant in an instant, the always calm Mython chews on a lip that might start bleeding. “Oh! Beyond the village we are. Hah…” Climbing up, then down, then skittering like a roach would, Mython’s excitement works out like a squirrel’s would.
(Wasn’t “duty” one of the venerable qualities Rouvenor noticed so often, that our kin should never stop learning, making, and protecting so that kin remain not just the First, but the Greatest?)
All emotions sharing withdraw; a child of life again ceases to feel alive. “Shall we chase, ancient one?” This block of wood ascends the branch-and-root cliff with effortless flinging from handholds, mere touches as leverage all needed to reach the not-prince.
(I’m not ancient! I’m only…!?)
Adventure waits not even for the youngest elf to be found in Ysanne!
A monument to what can only be the distant past draws closer with their efforts upward. Sails of thinnest mithril hang like wilted petals from tallest half-arches rising above the center of this shrine that can only serve one purpose. The wind they long for would gather within, turning all the many separate, great rings of the monument’s base every which way to alter the vibrations of truth!
(Pearly white, even with many-colored mosses covering it!)
Mython overtakes the not-prince to leap from the cliff face, landing atop a sixth step of one of many stairways that offer the seventh to the sky. Despite the overgrowth of greenery, everything vibrates with a ready spirit that needs no rousing.
“… What doesn’t fit Ysanne elsewhere, what can only be important, this is… it.”
Obeying also the wind, the many stairways of widths favorable for kin or beast attach back to the half-arches by thin arms on their bottoms. At the base of each half-arch are also platforms on the sixth height up wide steps. Ready to offer unto the light, they shall rise suddenly with the wind drawing up the great hooks they hang from.
“Nothing of the like have we kin ever seen. Spinning as these circles may if wind were called, for what need? Stairways that end suddenly, all the circles arranged with that as their overseer.”
With trepidation the shaking kin points at the grandest of door-less entrances shaped as a hollowed trunk burrow. Two of the ancestor trees of kin grow in a circle to frame entry: one thin and loamy, the other thick and sandy, doubt vanishing to reveal such a wonder has been recovered at last!
“It is unknown wha—”
“The first of six entrances to Mandostesse, that’s what this is!”
A heartbeat would bring her to this eternal entry that gathers no mists, but may!
The sylvan way is cold when ground is touched, but it must still live if intact, even if the painted eyes have been gouged from the tops of the trees! Representing the amber eyes of Anakar, it’s sacrilegious to obliterate them…
BUT!
“This is the Terminal of Aun!”
The unending carvings set within the floor and up the half-arches prove the history of Mandostesse is replicated, for the details of an enormous city of trees and spires are the same as Rouvenor’s pages which show them!
“Even if… it’s leaning a bit too much? How was the entire terminal ripped up and settled into the world tree…?”
“Terminal? Mandostesse!?” Mython’s scream is musical as the world tilts back to its correct orientation when the playmates abandon sideways. No longer is a bridge a cliff, for Ysanne once more pulls them toward its branches rather than away when thoughts normalize. “This is from the first city!?”
(Yes! It’s THE first terminal!)
“That amazing place you always talk about, Ave? Haaa, haaa…” A tired not-prince rolls over onto his back once reaching the inner circle of the terminal. Instead of falling, he stands slowly to take in its wonders while massaging his muscles, letting the sweat covering him evaporate or fall. “… Yeah, this is definitely older than anything I’ve seen of you elves. I’m knowledgeable of architecture after so many ancient places.” Half-arches a hundred feet high shimmer with reflections of waters not present. Sails of mithril large enough for three ships a piece await the merest gust to fly proud! “Even the contours of the world tree’s entry shrine in the Alchemaster’s gardens weren’t so perfectly contoured. But, these steps, these stairs? Why?”
“I… can’t even speculate…” Mython’s timidness grows as they come closer to the true first home that all gathered may now possibly visit!
It’s hard to answer when breathing so fast! The possibilities shouldn’t become endless so quickly, for never have so many options been had with history so close; so, a heroine has to… has to…!
(Explain!)
“The stairs, every one, shall carry you from the sixth step onto a translucent seventh. When touching it in a swift climb, you shall leap towards the heavens in a pillar of light!”
Throwing her arms up as she leaps, it’s a shame there’s no wind to help her ride that light!
“Transposition? Like that rabbit bitch Hoime?”
“How can we kin become light!?”
Two different answers: one quietly canny, while the other is fearful as a kin comes closer to mighty Mandostesse’s entrance?
“Not become light! Merge with it, ride it! It’s not transposition, but instead exceeding limitations of movement? See all of the musical instruments everywhere that can alter composition through elevations? Like the fairy circle for Môrmasto’s play area it shapes the world, but better, greater, and not using fairies! Instead, with the wind’s currents changing from the gathered wind’s direction shifting the circles, let me just show…” Before the great gate, a heroine points to the sails, then half-arches with their many hollow pipes with holes to resonate when the wind pulls down them.
“Breath. Sound.”
And toward the heavens she points at a thin cap upon the highest half-arches, supported over the terminal. Much like gems but more solid water, even after unknowable centuries this clear lens endures!
“Light. Coming in, going out.”
Then, toward Mython while smiling naughtily.
“Life! What is the word which is also polysemous for all these others? Shouldn’t you have learned it the moment you could speak, Mython?”
“… [Aelf]. Wind! Then… we can leave Ysanne via…?”
“Via light! It’s so common, after all. For the six terminals of Mandostesse that allow entry into the city, these stairways to the heavens were raised to permit travel beyond. The small ones are for people, the larger for beasts, and the platforms are for goods! Sylvan ways only traverse through primeval forests, and so kin crafted the stairways and lesser terminals which exist all across Zennia to reach the rest. This light takes us to the furthest lands of man with the right destination song, and even beyond when considering the unseen continent far across the ocean, right, Mython!?”
“… There are no terminals.” Crisp as an apple bite, one full of worms with the apple sour, Mython’s head shakes violently. “No stairways. No light traveling. Sound, wind, life, and light can all interchange as a beam and go ‘SHOO’!?” Biting fingernails, it’s some great stress afflicting Mython that smells like rot all around suddenly. “First I’ve heard, never seen, the amazing possibilities are honestly a cause for tears at having never done it! But, Mandostesse, THE MANDOSTESSE, this is from …!?”
(Everything I’ve ever fallen in love with of kin, it’s gone, isn’t it, Papa?)
Mists…
Dark, spreading and… a bit green, seem to wisp up behind for a moment when Mython’s stare becomes more than simply novelty’s tears.
With heavy thoughts comes…
“Hnnn!?”
“Enemy!?”
A timid soul cowers behind an emperor in a moment, and that bared man of might is oddly offended by this sylvan gate which can only open to wonders beyond.
“Ave… Mandostesse and this two-treed, huge archway? Like the tiny forest was for the world tree’s entrance when mists gathered, is this archway also the same?”
After the great leap by another elf, the loose mists seem gone when a heroine turns with answers.
“Yes…? Ah, mmm.” A heroine’s joy has drained to become a pond an inch deep, but still it’s good to splash if it would make him happy… “With the right fixated feeling this becomes a sylvan path to the First Capital.”
“… The former capital of elves?”
Curiously, he smiles so gaily at learning this! A broadness that comes with his head swaying as if all his dreams suddenly came into focus?
“Yes?”
“A place lost to your kind in, what, the First Age?”
“Yes…”
“Untouched by time, or loss, or… looters?”
“I certainly hope so…”
(For someone to steal from kin, that would… that would be…!?)
“A place that contains alllllllllll of the finest items, inventions, and Techniques of your race?”
“… Well, Rouvenor’s tale reveals a rapid flight from the city before the dark arrived, so I imagine most of everything was left as it was?”
“We’ll reclaim it, Avenalliah.”
Ah, providence and righteousness overflow in this fey lord who clenches both fists before his mouth, for his overwhelming joy is tinged by absolute reprisal for anyone that stops him from rescuing elvish history!
(Oh, Adris is quite happy!?)
Or something… firm, fierce, and painful to others if unleashed, at least this is felt?
(Just, look at his hidden expression! Adris has never shown such an unburdened happiness, one where he cares so deeply about aiding my people!)
He sways in place like he’s dancing, red eyes glittering when running a hand over the pearl-sandstone and dormant living wood of the nearest stairway.
“First Mandostesse, then the Elveara song you want. Ave, surely the future of elves will be… ‘shining’.”
“I’m glad you think… no, KNOW it will be! And, yes, we could be.”
“CAN WE LEAVE!?”
A shout so loud in the stillness of Ysanne slashes at happiness, for Mython’s face is just as naked as a hero’s with tragedy instead of comedy.
“Fly…? Ride light, and leave! Now, ESCAPE!?”
“Ah…? I know the proper songs of the terminal for many ‘places’, thus where to bid the wind to gather in which direction, but…” With the mithril sails limp when pointed at, it’s a mystery as to how. “Ysanne seems unwilling to share its own wind here, and the village’s air is so distant.”
“No wind, ever then, for Ysanne isn’t kind…” Upon a set of stairs does a tailor brood heavily. “No wind, no escape, no freedom, no… no hope…”
Fears so dark fester, leak out even when repressed!?
(Is it… more than just unhappiness that Ysanne is poisoned by…?)
“Don’t mind Mython. Finding this place was essential, Ave, yet…”
“Oh!?”
An elf’s hand is stolen, maybe just borrowed, then she finds herself drawn to the enormous gate that ten elephants stacked upon each other could pass through.
“What Ysanne is missing is joy, right?”
“… Yes. To enter Mandostesse, the ‘joy of kin for home’ is the irreproducible key. Maybe… that’s why we climbed up here to judge the world tree’s mood, instead of just…?”
(We took so long, but ‘convincing Ysanne to let us fall’ was a test?)
“Aaaahhh, yes, I’ve a plan as always, but…” Promptly he falls upon crossed legs, rhythmic huffing even now with good breathing vibes showcasing his oneness with life! “The terminal even from so far was… massive. I couldn’t stop thinking of the last time, so I wanted to ‘make some fun’.”
“The last time!? You remember coming here!?”
At her raucous joy from a memory revived, a possibility rekindled of his reclamation, he blinks and…! “No, no, on Xin where I rule. My vessel there sought the Hanging Tower of Vinzhe.” Waving off Ysanne, he instead leans on one hand to share a rare story. “Like your ‘terminal’, its Technique, its ‘magic’, was said to be a crossing beyond that world. But it was far, far taller than anything you could possibly have seen even here. It breached into the clouds at the top. Many sought to exceed that black sky. Most fell off, taken by the winds of its ire. But, I do—”
“But, why would you need a portal when you can cross worlds already?”
His mouth opened as an “O” for the vowel goes wider, then he leers with anger…!?
“Foolish girl!”
He slaps the floor, his anger a thunder that forces all into retreat!? “A vessel is what I puppet to lead lesser creatures, for my true self is too mighty to exist in a physical state!”
“So… you… wanted somewhere to enter into another world with more ease?”
“Hmmph.” His rage quells so fast…? “You comprehend well enough once you properly think, Ave. That is attractive in a companion, also for those who will follow you.” Closing his eyes, the forgiving not-prince softens his tone. “Though a proper gate would be preferable instead of my mighty will piercing through, it’s that Vinzhe was a beautiful relic of an age long gone which drew me. To conquer a tower whose very angles reject your ascent was… romantic. So many dangerous traps and guardians, all fodder for my glory! Fundamentally, I am a being that rewards, and is rewarded, by effort, Ave.” Slowly, he lays upon the terminal’s soft flat artwork floor to trace a finger over a scene of Mandostesse’s harbormen. The flying ship that sails without touching water is his favorite part to poke at! “Fun is said to be had when you’re not trying hard to do anything important. But, Vinzhe finally convinced me that when everything you do is also what you’d want to do, then even climbing can be…?”
“Fun every day!”
He winces at the interruption, but it’s too much to hold back! “Petripolis only became truly fun after you arrived. I… was needed a lot, never playing, unless it was with Kol.” Spring is only green when a memory you like of it lives again, so a heroine smiles to remind him! “If kin here have never done anything at all, then that must be why Ysanne has gone so dark. Adris, with you, every day is fun, even if it’s just climbing over the mayor’s walls to… liberate some honey! SO, you’re a great hero for them!”
(Simple things are easy to say if it’s to him.)
“… My mere existence does bring happiness like that, it’s true! Hahaha!”
He doesn’t wince; instead, he grins from ear to ear! Carefree, the not-prince slaps the ground again. “Understanding fun also requires self-reflection. When you call us heroes, Kol and the rest feel that belief too. You tend to be our… inspiration at random times.”
“Heroes? I did?”
“Against that monster chicken Gallus, you woke us. Don’t overlook your own potential to be a hero, too.” Such a half-remembered event produces a huge coldness within; but, since the not-prince smiles fondly, a heroine shouldn’t deny it. “Still, Neesiette, neither like delving. It’s only a task. Kol, too much liking for that idiot. Only you treat it as fearful, but also a chance to become a hero in truth. Balance, if found, can become a warm light that even I need at times. When you’re being…?”
(Being…? Praise!? AM I BEING PRAISED!?)
“I’m digressing, because…” A very sparse loincloth shifts, a bit too openly! “Even with thousands of suns passing…”
His open hand lifts for her to take it!
“… there’d still be many things elves have missed experiencing. I’ve perfected endless more ‘fun’ than they’ve possibly…”
An unforeseen “fun” is what slaps onto his palm, green and wriggling.
“… imagined?”
“Huh?”
With romance swirling like pinkish petals around them, there is a curious third flight added to their skyward adventure. Not much bigger than a shrub, what could only have blended in with the mossy-and-plant-covered terminal by fantastical chameleon traits eagerly shakes Adris’ hand with a solidly thick, yellow-speckled vine flapping.
“What in my name is th—!?”
“A [merrymocker]! Strange, they’re never found so far away from kin or people?”
Vines a plenty is all it is, for the named friend of kin is a collaboration of shifting chameleon vines that share the same spirit! That spirit shines brighter and brighter as the vines shake the hand they’re grabbing more and more furiously, until Adris begins tossing around with its mirth!
“Hahaha! It’s so pleased to meet you, Adris!”
“Let go!”
The clump of slowly moving, somewhat downcast vines releases the not-prince after earning a laugh, then curls up in front of its new audience expectantly!
Its reason is only ever one, and it won’t give up after earning one laugh.
“Ave, is it dangerous?”
For Adris to look bothered by it is also comical, so Ave laughs again!
“Fuhaha! Merrymockers are part clown, part dog! An empathic bundle of vines that can play with young kin without ever leaving them bored. All it wants is to make merry, for laughter feeds it. They’re so common around kin that sometimes…!”
“Wow, another perfect novelty for me after so many as late.” A kin’s interjection silences her.
… A creature that all elvish children play with from spring to fall, and back again, is treated as an unknown being of legend …
… Maybe even “fun” itself has passed into legend …?
“Merrymockers are rare, Mython…?”
“‘Almost rarer than sunlight at midnight’ would be more truthier? Only Devaunu has them springing about at times. There, even, they’re so much tinier, and often are more pests than playmates with so much going on always. So I have heard said, for I’ve never seen them myself. That they’ve become full of ire about the smallest offenses they perceive is the oft spoken complaint.”
(Why would they be pests!? They make people happy!)
“Adris, they’re good kids! I’ll show you! Though, isn’t this merrymocker quite old? Maybe even older than the Third Age…?” A heroine pats the vines that arch closest, feeding as much good warmth as possible into this elder!
“‘Hey, hey, make merry with me’!”
The vines shake, then the whole squirming clump shakes its “tail” like a dog would to follow when Ave’s hands lift, then swing left-to-right!
“What sort of critters could we be today if we were!?”
“Critters?” The prince blanks at the request, but the vines jump!
Plant skin that is speckled yellow over green goes glossy bright as it draws in hopes, while the vines thin themselves and conform when wrapping around each other into new burgeoning shapes!
Out from the center of the chameleon bundle jumps part of the whole, loosed as a living-looking mammal: a rather dangerous and eccentric…
“Weasel?” A red-eyed black hunter with a lock of stark white fur on its head rushes up to the prince! Lifting on its hind legs, this sharp-eyed, teeth-baring acrobat then somersaults up to land upon his look-alike’s crown!
“What!? G-Get off…!?”
With a pose of dominance held atop, the black weasel stretches out its forelimbs slowly, then whips around like it’s conjuring some magical might to slap away a not-prince’s hands’ assaults!
“Screeeaaaaaw~!”
It challenges the world that would dare oppose it, ready to conquer with its bushy tail high as it settles into a fighting stance.
“Pwahahahaha! It’s just like Adris!?”
“Slap it off!”
A heroine shouldn’t shake so hard, especially not while laughing at someone so royal whipping about to be free of it, but the weasel’s glare at her comes with a wink that also is just like the real man’s!
(A perfect copy! He is… ah.)
Another facsimile creeps out so lethargically.
It stares at those witnessing it after barely lifting its head to extend its own tongue. The moment sight is confirmed by look and taste… the emerald coward recoils, then speeds toward the one it was brought out to mock.
“A snake?” The not-prince’s single word shoots spinning shame down a much longer tail!
Just like the merrymocker’s copy of an emerald serpent that coils below her, gathering tears like it’s ready to expire if a single event goes sour, both share a need after to hide in some deep hole that can’t be found!
“Pffft!?” When the tiny serpent rolls to show its belly, the not-prince covers his mouth to stifle an ominous gust!
“That’s definitely Ave!”
The world is spinning outside, too, wanting to perish along with the fake heroine whose face has to be covered to hide her shame…!?
(… Why does that have to be me…)
“Hahaha! What a funny little guy.” A weasel hits the ground on four legs, hissing back at the one who finally dumps it. Standing up angrily, the not-prince stomps toward the joker who spawned the jokes…!?
(Please don’t hurt…!)
“Good show of tiles. The joke is your pot.” With a derisive smile, Adris happily says that, “But don’t press your luck,” before batting at the vines that lift toward his praise. He turns to pat a worthless girl’s shoulder.
“If you can’t laugh at yourself, don’t laugh at others, right, Ave? A snake isn’t bad to be, nor is a weasel that ugly.”
(… I just wish I offered less to laugh at.)
But the vines happily slap about, finding the joke still going as the weasel comes to loom over the snake.
Staring with unknowable intentions, that black weasel seems… hungry!?
“Don’t fight! There’s no reason for discord in Ysanne…!”
When the snake acts like it’ll have a heart attack and die, a heroine tries to protect the mocking creature!
“Why no discord, oh Heir?”
“Mython?”
At her back, the tailor offers a curious question while joining in their watching of the beasts below.
“Because, Mython… nothing needs to eat in Ysanne! Anything born here would be gentle, for any ‘hunt’ is only a game to win or lose, to then play again later!”
“Ah, true, all of our lives are a game here.” Mython’s dreamy voice sounds happier than previously, with the joke perhaps also gaining a third one’s humor. “Hah, but, isn’t the nature of even Ysanne for a hunter to hunt the hunted, unequal even if we set rules? Weasel hunts small snake, while the snake that endures shall then, larger, hunt it.” Mython’s gaze is chillier than even the colds that washed over Anakar in the time of the dark sun!
“Just like us, our own needs from each other change depending on what would sate, and to whom would be sated. Wouldn’t you also ‘hunt’ if this fancy came upon you?”
All despite having such a pleasant tone, it hurts to be considered a potential hunter of her not-prince!
“I don’t like those… ‘games’, though, and I wouldn’t…”
“Few… do like them, I imagine, except for the hunter who enjoys the prize. One such kin wants to play, play, play with humans, but languishes without them.” For this part-time ranger to possibly share an inclination similar to the once-noble, now hurtful Owl of Kainan, there’s a dread for the future where kin might love strife; yet, strife isn’t what a fey lord wants when Adris boasts to this gabby Mython who is staring him down!
“Rather than hunting others with my power, I’ve always hunted something within them that has worth.”
Prideful, strangely so, Adris fehl Dain wants from others without needing to treat them as prey.
“Unless they have no worth, and then they will become nothing. Not even my prey.”
(A false god desires to free others to seek their desires, not to feast on them!)
“Such a good judge of others you are? The little you seems to agree~!” Mython points with a long finger at the weasel which nears the snake while sniffing.
“It’s hunting for something ‘inside’ that it’s found appealing, too!”
But, not for violence does it rile up!
With the emerald snake hissing merrily, it flops onto its back to show the belly of its long tail as a lure!
(What… what is this!?)
Something very hard pokes out from the fur at the hind of the weasel!?
After arching its back and panting, it leaps!
To clutch around the snake’s luridly offered tail end, the black weasel pants as its hips thrust… and…!?
“Only, and ever, does this ‘prey’ wait for another to eat it right up.”
“This is a little beyond ‘mocking’, but does seem ‘normal’ for certain reverse hunters.” A not-prince grins at the display, his sidelong glance a cutting slash at the heart of a maiden when she is the target.
(… I… don’t want to be a coward who can only wait…!)
Both hands on her chest are heavy, difficult to accept the enormity of Ysanne when made to seem so very small against it. Inside, there’s an inferno where there should be easy feelings to share!
The pinkishness of petals whirling all about in sight makes the fire worse; and, the shame of simply laying, accepting what comes without adding, is the oldest pain that still looms over her perfect friendship with another!
“What is this feeling?”
Another taunts the storm of the unknown within; always too, other kin know nothing of simple thoughts when Mython asks that!
“Wanting, but not wanting; wishing one way, then another?” Mython’s tone is endearingly acidic when so close to a poor heroine’s long ear that hears most everything in Ysanne! “Never the predator in the game, but still wanting not to be prey? So much of you is old, but all is new. Humans and their ‘contradiction’, a word that kin had to borrow from them to discuss, how can you feel that and also be AELF?”
(I don’t know! I don’t, but, I don’t want to be mocked!)
To be this snake that effortlessly is used upon the floor would feel so good, every scale upon her long body burns with that knowledge! What should be airy is reassuringly thick, dark, and weighted; but, never can she rise if she’s always laying flat!
(… I want…)
Too much is heavy; with that heaviness, there’s collapse unless it’s thrown off!
(… Him… I… with me!)
Collapse is ruin; ruin, despair.
And despair is cured by only one elixir thus far found!
That elixir is what she wants to drink most of all…
“Hoooh!?” A shock reflects outside when this perfect man of pleasing dark jolts.
His gaze that was hungrily absorbing the erotic mockery becomes hers alone to bear! Aggressive, this closeness when he gravitates like the wind brings them closer…
(Haaah… shaaaa! I… he’s always suddenly coming for me!? But, I… want…!)
An unknown tingle of fire becomes a slow burn.
Ignited, it demands without reason…!
“That’s the thing about being the predator who is quite cunning and strong.” Brightly yellow eyes flash approval when one kin searches another for the answer to this sensation! “Nature bids us to pluck what we want, and what we can reach, when the fancy comes upon us.”
“Av—? Avveeeee!?”
Nature demands it, then!?
Her tail that is like the green forest wraps around the source of its life when accepting that nature!
“Adris…!”
“AVE!? Wait, what are you…!?”
Like the perfect warm tree to drape over, a snake elf who has known only cold rock basks in the sun while helping shed the white cloth that hides part of his trunk.
The branch revealed is curved upward! So… throbbing with inner stoutness. The sun shouldn’t be kept from it, never, ever!
“‘True to ourselves’, this is the first commandment of kin. That we be free, and what is ‘thought’, but slavery.”
“Hey, Mython, Ave is…!? Ooh? OOOH!?”
Such delectable pleasure comes with the tightening of scales over the softness of tanned skin, for this forest king’s small body is always receptively devouring of her attributes! Ever wanting more, even when denying himself, his longing fills a tail that would be destitute without knowing that need.
“Adris, I… my lessons ALSO taught me this…!”
“Lessons!? Oh, those lessons!? Hah, wait, your tail is at my mou—THHPPPHHHH!?”
His breath is a torment with how hot it washes over her scales! Draping over his shoulders should be hard, but all the movements need no thought, nor reason, nor inhibition when freeing from how to attend to him.
(… HAAAH! I was… made to do this…!?)
Any barrier is evil for kin, so the burning heroine rips that cloth panel free that covers her shame!
It tears loose petals that were sewn above. The skin exposed is touched by the coldness just as wonderfully as all that has ever shown! Almost into position, ever close, there’s nothing to hold onto with him standing so rigidly in her embrace and the heroine contorting forward, obeying muscles which move without explanation!?
(Limber, but not enough, I can’t… I won’t be able to stay up!?)
Angling her shameful place so that his looooooong, smoothed branch can blissfully open it, an unsuitable heroine pants with dismay at the monstrous body that denies her this position to spread delicate petals below!
If only they were closer to a wall, or a stairway, or…!?
“Help is a heartbeat away.”
Both eager hands are taken up gently by another’s. The heroine who is about to burst leans forward with the mighty god of fey behind ensconced in his throne of coils; so, the odd aid before her can only be another person who was almost forgotten.
Someone… who is not the closest friend she’s ever had!
“He’s yours, of course? But, why only…?” Emotions that elude composure bake the terminal and its discoverers! Shameful and strong, everything a heroine has felt seems to be escaping!?
“Having one, and only one, is not something even I can know entirely how to say? Only him: your truth, your oath, that no branch crosses with yours but his?”
“Haaah! Yes? No, but… I…!?”
“How… unlike kin.” Mython’s stare is a recrimination that overwhelms with some guilt, and enormous insult! For… true kin to cross with so many branches, or rather any and all, there is some mistake that has been made, or lesson lost, or…!?
(I want myself to be truly his! Why is this bad!?)
“To find something sacred… and to devote yourself to it, because it matters, why… that would be wrong isn’t something I can answer.” Mython offers no help.
“… Other kin… don’t care about belonging, only being, why…!?”
“Shhhh!” The strangely composed tailor shushes her, then looks past the heroine!
At instead the man who is panting, Mython studies with a hungry stare at the giver of pleasure!
(Adris wants in! Inside me, he wants to be, that’s what he wants, right, Adris does…!?)
“AVE! I… I’m hot…!?”
She cannot turn around to respond to that man, for she’s moving too much to shift her coils to the perfect hold upon him.
For this not-prince to moan so lewdly, to be so devoted in the stabs of his mighty scepter against her belly where skin meets scale, it’s not poetic at all if you try to describe this… “carnality”!
“Does ‘lust and love’ need to be apart as the humans word them to be?”
“No!? Maybe…!? Not apart, but…”
(All the rare times that Rouvenor met a female, and love… “blossomed”… he was also like this, wasn’t he!? Having so much felt, but not able to be spoken?)
Not composed, or perfect, or poetic, but instead perhaps… feeling the same burning, crazy need that denies words!?
That need has her wishing his arms were free to grab her thick tail that wraps around his front side; yet, then they’d no longer be kept safe by it.
“Lewd… am I lewd…?”
“Hahahahaha!” Mython’s silky laugh goes hoarse quickly as this once-withdrawn kin begins crying with laughter. “You’re the lewdest kin I’ve ever met, devoting all of the ‘firsts’ you could ever feel solely to one other!”
“… Ahh… I’m… lewd…?”
“Is it wrong to be the most extreme in experiencing?”
(Haah!? Aaaahhhh…? No, it isn’t…?)
Their embrace firms!
(Fine… I’m… I guess I’m just a stupid, lewd snake who thought she was somehow different from every other kin!?)
Partners for this moment in touching when none other has ever shared such closeness, a pathetic elf who no songs will praise pulls away from her almost-lover with the aid of kin; and then plunges in the hardest sword ever forged by the gods!
(But I won’t be a coward aboUT IIIIIITTTT!?)
“AAHHH!?” The sun falls into a volcano!
A scream that shouldn’t be uttered rings out, and this is only the first shameful cry of many!
(WORDS! I never have… nnnngh, words for it…!?)
To describe is impossible when… SEX is so far from prose!?
“Try…” Mython orders while the god-like being that is served seems to moan!?
“I shouldn’t! Mmmm!? It’s so… goopy inside!”
“Even without his whiteness yet?”
“I’m so soft! Tight as its slides in…!?” Into that ever-soft, molten sensation a snake begins to thrust another into her shifting depths! “Then, I feel like I’m all around him, and it’s so kind!”
Hanging her long tail around the not-prince completely gives her strength she shouldn’t have. As the lesser always in friendship aimed at… love, even this position where her back is to him is too aggressive as she controls how his rod pokes inside!?
“A warmth that makes two as one, the softness becoming wet and cloudy?”
“YES! I’m… remade by his shape! Aaah!? Every inch, he’s so big! I’m going to break… haaah, aaahn, but…!?”
Hands only for balance squeeze! The sheer difficulty of this angle that has her mimicking a lowly dog sends some primal discontent surging; she gasps as her innards adjust with movement of her entrance!?
(I can change like this!?)
It’s not grotesque, it shouldn’t be, but her pliability also joins with her acrobatic bending. With that aid, the erotic fool summons the strength to push so deep that his tip strikes like a fire-starting flint inside; then, moans as his withdrawal tries to pull out her insides that have already surrendered so much!
Bridging as she is to barely hold her head back up, this exercise would be ridiculed if all involved weren’t moaning. She finally does look back to watch his mouth suck in air, then out rapidly in halting exhalation. Her long tail tip circles his eyes instead to blind him.
“Ahhhh, I’m digging into… your walls!?” Adris cries that out; when she rocks forward and down, then back and up, his further moans are too precious to peek back any longer lest she beg for a kiss that cannot reach!
“I want to break!”
“Shatter, then, and let him put you back together with each thrust.”
The ever-distant elf that never talks brings cheeks closer to speak privately in their tiny nest!
“Find more fun ways to drop and fall for him~?”
“Adris…! ADRIS! I… like…!”
New ways for pleasing have this long-tailed heroine dipping lower to massage with her walls a’tightening. As Mython’s hands keep her up, how he pokes is hard to control once a flying angle humans can’t meet is performed by a snake; but, because he’s entered once, he’s now a part of her that cannot be lost again!
(M-More than just friends!)
“His dick? You like it deepest here?” Mython’s stomach is what is rubbed over with one hand to tease her. Only being held up by her left is scary! “Sacrificing to earn that kiss inside again?” But, when her free hand rubs at that spot taunted about, she rocks with a reverberating pleasure!
“… NNNnnn!? I…!?” Being talked to by someone other than her prince is so discordant right now!?
“How can it be wrong to enjoy special pleasures?”
“Being… lewd, liking only…!? Is… wrong!” It sends angry shivers from her tail that squeezes him to have this debate! “Past kin weren’t…!”
“Then everything, all at once embrace him so it’s still ‘artful’. Isn’t that your devotion, to love all you feel? A kinful duty prizes even that curved stick of pleasure and its kiss?”
(Duty!? To love isn’t… aaahhh!? Duty…!)
But it makes a huge tail much, MUCH hotter to be called devoted!
The fluffiness from her head to her waist winces at the idea of ‘devotion’ like she’s bound to him; yet, the inglorious snake that has ever been a sad part squeezes with rhythmic pulses at the thought of serving!
“AAVVVHHHMMMPP!?” A not-prince cries in one long shout as his hard, hard rod expands within!
His boyish moans are so rare. Delectably sweet when even elvish extravagances cannot compare! Squeezing harder makes his moans louder, while softening her coils brings sad whimpers, and the contest is brought on without being able to think since blood fills her head at this sharp angle.
(I want him! I WANT HIM!)
A shameful and vigorous and juicy… pussy does what the rest will not accept to try, and so the heroine obeys!?
This heroine who tramples on friendship moans like some Castillo beast, feeling these intentional impulses from the to-be-conquered tunnel of a female become her only mental guide.
His thrusts strike so strongly at the same time as her will to receive them, for a tail made by evil gods to please only this man edges him with long strokes; then, shakes them both with rapid thrusts that launch spit from her opened mouth! Her long bundled hair swings to match the beats, silver ornaments sparkling this changing tempo!
(What am… I doinggggg!?)
“None of them ever want so much, then more, after once having it!” Mython’s own alluring moans make hypnotic impacts of the rounded head knocking against her fragile depths so much scarier! “Dedicating yourself, understanding only his happy points? A wind too wishy-washy could never reach this… ‘love’ you’re exploring!”
(Love!? It is love!? AAHI’mmmm… not just… a slut…!?)
Crying should happen with the relief, but instead the only “tears” slicken her scales as she pushes his dick guided downward deeper, and then gyrates her whole front half hanging before the prince. The petals of her light outfit crushed against him spread that citrus smell. A forked tongue peeks past her lips when they close to stop drooling. Juices that are hers mix, and the lewd perfume overwhelms even her own sharp senses.
She savors even more, so much more, the way crushing against this beautiful man’s waist makes the lightning that was building at her groin agitate, then it races up her spine! Shallower than their precious times before, his long dick instead makes her hop with each press against her inner walls. Not hitting her favorite spots makes her whine, and thrash, and only after she notices does she grasp her own self-torment is working him up even more as he watches!
“AAADRIS!? HAaaah!? Aaaahhhh…”
Too much grinding pleasure will damage a person, this must be true even for kin; for, a girl who is not especially bright feels the ambiance dimming when another elf, a being that contains the same “truth” within, shakes with the promise of catastrophic release!
Because of the angle, to attempt to grind her bean is almost like stabbing his length into her spine! A spine that’s totally numb, the length of her tail an orderless beast rampaging as she dips even lower to accomplish this self-satisfaction of her favorite spot rubbing over her own tail!
(Not only lewd…! I’m… going beyond that!)
Staring is fearful once aware of the kin needing to speak.
“Priestess…!”
Empathy should always open; but, the pleasures and the emotions felt without names, just beginning to find words for them now that the heroine knows she is as lewd as all others, are revealed to another too as that kin’s expression changes to become lewder with each thrust!
“I’ve never… known this ‘love’, nor how much I’d want to feel yours!”
A tailor that was distant was safe. This… lewd creature that bares its own wants as incomprehensible lusts that are so simply complicated confuses!
(… Please… I don’t know what kin should do, or what you want…!)
To feel all that the heroine is finally reflected from another, even if it’s like staring at an image distorted from a pond’s surface, promotes what is purely elf up top to long for more than hands touching…!
Not for sake of elvish beauty, for there is no want of the form beheld, but to know the resonance of sharing two spirits that diverged so long ago from the same ancient trees! Beneath Mython’s normal dress, a hunger impossible to quell…!
“May… I be close with you, too, to share, and shine like you!?”
Panting like the weasel did, this craning guide and first near-friend among elves has a needy smile when wanting to make pleasure the same between them.
Full of wonder, and awe, and spilling out with a growing desire for “joining” down below that smells just like a heroine realizes she always does!
If allowed, everything she’s experienced will gain a new viewpoint.
A new breath mixing in, wiping away all that she’s ever known of her true prince’s…!
(Not… the same… ever again…!? No? NO!)
The moment it’s revealed what is to come, and what it means…!
Her long, shameful tail POWERFULLY squeezes!
(Hmmm… HMMM!?)
Everything… stolen!
Tarnished, the precious memories!
Feelings not from the forest’s soul awaken!
Taking, stealing, depriving, and ruining, any and all would do this to her are…
“… ShaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAA!”
ENEMY!
This instinct spreads, pointing outward the fangs her opened mouth threatens!
(… Hisssshhh… I am…!)
“AAAAAAAAHVVVVEEEEE!?” Her needs direct not inward, but outward as muscles contract to produce the most pleasant squeal.
“Priestess!? Ah? AAAH!?”
And for hands clutched with affection, now they close like a serpent’s jaw.
(No pain! Pain… haaaah, is BAD!)
“Nooooobody!”
To its knees, the forest child falters when some monster moans!
“Takesssshhhhh me from…!”
Dark and deep, roaring loud when ever silent before, awakens another’s voice!?
“HIM.”
A hateful, ruinous pleasure so “green” in color, despite the scent it awakens feeling “rocky” instead of forestry, DEMANDS to strike, lash out, and harm whatever tries to harm her!
“Aveeee belongshhhh to…”
So rewarding it is that what reflects from this elf’s yellow, scared eyes is a color matching the “green” coldly sharpening like a knife edge within!
“Adriiiissshhhhh, SHAAAAAAH!!!”
The emerald tail that has ever made her feel so small is actually the most powerful leash in the universe, one to ensure that SHE can never be separated from HIM, only ever needing to tighten more, ever more until finally …!
“Sweet, sour, a feeling he alone makes!?”
The dangerous scent of need stops itching an elf’s forked tongue.
(H-Huh!?)
“Are some rarest feelings nurtured only where no other wind plays?” A face witnessed before that the heroine herself might reveal dries as if it were only a mist. “… my fancy flees.” The branch offered that was sticky with fresh sap instead is dry and muted.
(Aaahh… you feel more normal now?)
“For kin, ‘not wanting’, hardly ever chosen; so, known clearly only when spoken.” And all that… darkly “green” feeling that was filling every nerve and muscle also fades when Mython winks after the rhyme.
“He, and you, this need as one; don’t forget now what’s begun.”
(Adris!)
The prince must be served, not forgotten about as she did when stopping his service! A frozen tail relaxes, then reunites him with the true rhythm of joy by sliding back, and forth, then around on his mighty rod!
“More… I need more… for him…!”
The thrusts must unleash his mighty seed, aid in cleansing his soul! So that she can bear it for him, she suddenly depends on another again to free his darkness by ‘balancing’ as the not-prince bids she do!
“Make your daydream your day.” That is the kindest offer of any kin she’s met.
“Mython…! I want… aaah, haaah! Good with my prince, to be…!”
“Then tell me his truth as you know it, so that I can love it, too!”
“Love!? You want to…!? GOOD! Ahhh, please, like him…! He’s so strong…! And tan, like you could lick choco—LAAAATE…!?”
(Want… wantwantwantwantwantwant want, I WANT ADRISSSSSS!)
Shaking by the violence bringing the prince’s whiteness, the sweetest gift of his more than even power could ever offer, shall soon fill until bursting that dark pit that tingles and shifts inside!
Nothing explains how weak such a small part of another can make a being so long as the heroine; nor how much stronger her happiness becomes even when so short this play between friends seemingly will last!
(No more poems, or stories… nnnhaaa, feel only what happens… our real flesh and breaths joining!)
Meaty slaps against her limber underside betray how much her hole clings on. A slick sound of air escaping her lips at times when the wetness escapes, this isn’t a wind that is kind, only shameful!
A sticky sounding joining of this naked grind; embarrassing, when to all proudly entwined! They can stare and see her pinkness be spoiled by a rod with red and darkness at its head. No longer a child, a lusty snake elf is an adult so long as this mighty king wants to piston faster, and faster, and faster until she can only screeeam!
If only her stinging nipples could feel his tongue, so that the heat of them could numb the need! Then, others could see her sated by him, and that she might return the favor by licking his own in turn…!
(Ugghhh, in… the end, I’m, naah, just like Kol!?)
“SHAMEFUL, TO… “MATE” LIKE KOBOLDS DO IN THE OPEN!?”
“Why? Kin are open for this reason, to share everything, with everyone?”
“E-E-EVERYONE!? No, oh, oooh… please, aaaahhhh, that would…!?”
The coils soothe her beloved Adris at that wicked thought, producing sounds of “UUHHHH!? HAAAH! HEEeeee!” as his baby-soft moans are proof he might like the offered scenario!
That knowledge clenches her nethers many times, each spasm a lightning bolt shot up!
(I’M NOT BAD!? Oooohh, please, I’m doing… TRYING at least!?)
She is good, and he is good, and another guards them as she anticipates the greatest want for them both…!
As his inner joy and tension mount, the flow of meaning between them sees a feeling of warmth within where it tickles most; then, a hunger, sating as if life flows, gathers; finally…!?
(Feeling, aaah, a heavy weight…!?)
“Baby!? You wah…!? I want! PLEASSHHH, ADRISHHHH’S!?”
Screaming that bucks his hips even in her tail’s grip! Together, this maddening future casts away all her doubts.
What he desires, she also wishes the reward of being his…!?
(HE WANTSHE TOO!)
“What should merely happen from ‘novelty’, you’re such a… strange kin to desire weight. Share more… everything with me that you want to praise loudly!”
“He’s soooo kind, picking me…! Letting me, even thoo he hash Shtill, and Kol, and…!?
Bullying meee, hish huge dick deep…!”
From this moment to the next, with the future of elves at stake after rediscovering Mandostesse, what matters more than salvation is simply one more moment in the uncountable future ones where “true love” can be proved by the sloppy, slurching sounds of their joining.
(Tell him… I need… I need to teeaaaahhHHH!?)
“It’s ‘hunt and be hunted’ with our feelings, that’s always been true.”
Distance pulls close to hide the enormity of Ysanne, only the pinkishness of perpetual pleasure mattering!
So long as she can disappear into this pinkness along with him, she is happy.
Their connection has his manly dick too large to leave. All that is left is to keep tightening, then accept what flows to covet that warmth even more than tales of yore!
“Because you’re the sirocco crashing into this gate, a shining plea…”
A serenading explanation hypnotically peels away lesser thoughts…
“… while, lesser kin are dark prey, which shall show when they flee.”
Everyone is happy for the moment, though!
Even the snake and weasel wrestle into a ball to match their real things entwining.
Paradise only needs boiling love, not bad futures that might come!
“Defying what horrors kin shall dream of, I’ll preserve this sweet thing called ‘love’.” A honeyed voice that drips so mind-numbingly close to a sensitive ear promises aid.
(THANK YOUUUUU!)
During the berserk joining, a third creature of mimicking vines just as small as the other two is hidden behind Mython’s feet. It peeks around to watch the fun show.
A loooong tail like a snake’s has it; but, it’s also furry like the weasel is…!
“AAAhhnnn, HOT, HOOOT!? ADRISSHHHH!?” A molten gift more precious than mithril or silver deposits with huge quantities into the treasury of an unworthy girl!
“Enjoy, but don’t forget…
‘For every fun day where we laugh, thy burden you’ll discover after as half’.”