Pleasure Planet

A cool breeze wafted through the window, brushing Kirilar's cheek gently. In her Reverie, she was a hunter, moving through the trees as fast as an arrow, chasing some unknown prey. The memories came to her from beyond time, beyond the barrier of worlds, from ancestors she didn't even know she had.

She'd had this dream before, always with the same ending. The more she chased it, the more she realized it was chasing her. She was the last of her kind, and it had saved the best for last. The Sidhe were a dying race, and her pride had cost so many lives, a pride she now cast away for her own survival.

Her companion was Nightsbane, golden-haired hunter of a forgotten clan. He, too, was the last of his kind, and together they fled, in the desperate hope of reaching another world, another reality, far beyond the Monster's reach.

Hers was the power of the moon, the mysteries of magic. The spells she wove once impressed the Queens so much that she was compelled to serve her, like a court fool, until she finally grew bored of the tricks and trappings of the art of the Sidhe. Her magic was never so poorly used as by the laughing monkeys and braying donkeys of the Summer Court; even the winter Queen's fel purposes at least suited its majesty properly.

Nightsbane, on the other hand, was the quintessential hunter. He had long proved a worthy opponent of dragons and giants, and had sought to best something far greater: darkness itself. His proud quest had clearly come to an end, because Darkness had come for them both, and they ran.

They ran like the wind wishes it ran. They flowed through the forest like fear flows through the veins of the gazelle as the lion pounces. Like the cold, grasping hand of terror, the Devourer followed them, realer a fear than Fear Itself.

That isn't to say that Nightsbane was without his usual gallows humor.

"Do you think if we run ourselves to the bone," he said, between panting breaths, "we'll be too scrawny to eat?"

Flustered out of her deadly focus, as she so often was, Leuthil replied, "aren't you already?"

"Come now, all the faeries find me irresistible."

"I must not be a faery anymore, then," she quipped, almost forgetting the soul-crushing terror that was hot on their heels.

"I don't think either of us will ever be again."

"We certainly won't if you don't stop talking and start running faster." She conjured a burst of speed, taking the form of a doe and bounding through the forest at leagues with every leap. Nightsbane became a great stag, impressive, perhaps, to the Forest Sprites, but not to the Chaos that followed so close behind.

They ran, at length, putting untold miles behind them, until they finally came to the Gate.

It stood, much as it always had, a hodge-podge of pathways and portals, leading to who-knows-where. It had appeared long ago, too long for any Faery to recall when, but everyone knew it was growing. Now it was massive--a titanic array of shifting probabilities, like glass windows into other worlds, shifting in the winds of chaos and colliding like wind chimes in a storm.

They were not the first Faeries to brave the Gate, nor the most foolish. Still, they had precious little time to consider their next move.

"Did they not say there would be a light? Some sort of odd, silvery light?" Nightsbane breathed incredulously as he gazed in wonder at the all-too bizarre nexus of planes before him.

"There is...somewhere. But you have to feel for it. Let the light of the worlds touch you, let it past your skin." As Leuthil spoke, she closed her eyes, and let her glamour fade. She was Sidhe again, and gone was her usual silvery radiance, her powerful aura of sensual mystique. And yet, something reflected off her plain skin, her simple features, some distant glow that alighted against her, setting her off like faery fire. She was somehow more beautiful this way, berefit of all vanity.

"Leuthil! Do not go where I cannot follow!" He called, trying desperately to reach for her, but scared of the planar energies that swirled about her.

"It isn't darkness, Durothil, but light! Beautiful light! Do not fear it, my love!" As she vanished, pulled into the infinite radiance, she heard his frantic calls fading behind her.

"Firefly."

She pretended to still be entranced.

"Firefly!"

The annoying voice wasn't so easily quelled.

"Would you like one to eat?" she quipped, making a show of stretching and yawning as if awakened far too early from a deep, satisfying torpor.

Her sister was undaunted. "What kind of a name is that, anyway?"

Kirilar sighed as she rose to her feet. "Just because you never chose your own name doesn't mean it isn't our way." She opened the drapes and leaned out the window. The sun was low, still behind the crown of peaks; the air was heavy with dew, and yet alive with the scent of pollen and the hints of ash stirred by the unsettled volcano beneath. The cool pine felt good against her chest as she leaned precariously forward, trying to ignore the jarring presence of Aran behind her.

"Did you see one flying around and suddenly achieve enlightenment? Did you feel the touch of Corellon?" she said in the most irreverent tone possible, sliding in beside her to ruin her solace in the window.

With a deadly serious look, she intoned, "did he touch you in a bad place?"

Kirilar slapped her sister, or at least the place her sister should have occupied if she were forced to obey the laws of physics like everyone else. In short order, Aran was behind her again, now sitting on her bed, getting Aran-germs all over it.

With a throaty sigh, she sat herself on the windowsill to face the source of all her woes. "If you must know, I was taking a walk through park, just by myself, and I saw one. It was just blinking away, like they do...but I must have spent a good half hour, well past twilight, just staring at it. I wasn't the only one. The animals, the trees, the moon itself seemed entranced by its little dance."

"So..." Aran wore a face to mock the complexity of her choice of name. "So you wanted to be like the Firefly. you know...the center of attention?"

With a pronounced harumph, Kirilar returned to her private solace in the window.

"I was thinking of picking my own name. Maybe Darkie. Do you think that would be a good name? Darkie? Huh?"

Kirilar just ignored her.

"My people believe that fireflies are messengers from the Goddess. That they lead the way to water, or away from danger. That the day is caused by fire sprites, and at night they flee the darkness, but the ones who stay are the ones so dedicated to the Goddess and her people that they do not fear the darkness."

Kirilar was silent for a long while, and then...

"They fear the darkness."

Aran had almost left the room, but she paused. "Hmm?"

"They fear it. That's what makes them special. Most faeries run away from their fears. They don't. They stand there, even though their brightness makes them the most obvious target. The Darkness is all around them, but they pretend not to care, because they need to light the way. A lot of people...need to know...the way."

Aran waited for just the right comedic timing, before accentuating "so does your butt light up?" with a firm slap to her sister's rear end.

She must have been deep in thought, because she was caught so utterly off guard that she lurched forward in reflex, literally hurling herself out the window and into the cold lake. Aran was paralyzed with indecision as to whether or laugh hysterically or...nah, she just laughed hysterically as Kirilar righted herself in a panic and flailed for a solid surface before realizing better and simply teleporting to the shore.

"I will destroy you!" she screamed at the laughing darkness beyond the now-empty window frame, cold water dripping from her sunclad body, the droplets accentuating her many goosebumps from the sudden frigid shock. As she gasped for air, her lungs still spasming from the blow, she noticed the amused form of Zak grinning at her, as he languidly lounged on a nearby tree branch, and a fresh well of rage oddly mixed with arousal welled up and started to warm her from the inside.

"Oh, you're such a gentleman," she mocked, feigning modesty as she half-covered herself and played up the cold, all the while presenting a more appealing profile. It was difficult to say why he always had this effect on her; okay, not so difficult, what with the god-like charisma and the subtle undercurrent of terrible demonic power.

Even as she enjoyed feigning contempt for his perversion, she was taken by surprise from behind as a great shadow fell upon her. A moment of fear, tinged with an ancient and terrible memory buried deep in her ancestral memory, was quelled when warmth surrounded her. She was held tightly in mighty arms, coated with a thick woolen blanket that smelled of earth and pine needles. She felt her back vanish against the vast backdrop of Erik's midsection, his broad chest dwarfing her delicate face, and blushed in a moment of true shyness.

"Thank you," she breathed, regretting the loss of his warmth as he stepped respectfully away, his back turned to her and her path back to the cabin. She smelled his morning run, the satisfying aroma of a hunter who bests his prey after a long chase, a body settling down from hard work and anticipating a hearty meal. Arrayed near his feet was a massive fish, already split and beheaded, and a small pile of ice he'd made somehow to keep it fresh for tonight's meal. His only breakfast was some sort of big orange melon from the jungle below. Clearly he'd been up for some time.

"You can eat my melons anytime," she breathed, starting toward the cabin.

"What was that?" he called, not turning to look back as he remained standing, mindful of whatever danger still lurked, perhaps from the warlock nearby, or who knows where else.

"Nothing!" she squeaked awkwardly as she stumbled quickly away, finding herself oddly ashamed in a most un-coquettish fashion. She heard only Zak's mocking laughter, or was it a morning bird?

Waiting in ambush was the dark one, who easily avoided her deft attempts at revenge while snatching away her blanket. "Are you trying to steal him? Do you have to take everything from me?" she sneered in an almost serious voice.

"You don't deserve him," she dismissed, marching proudly past her toward the fireplace, which she ignited instantly with but a thought, stretching out on the bearskin rug to warm up.

"He doesn't like them scrawny anyway, miss B-cup," she mocked as she sat curled up around the blanket.

Sprawled out on the thick rug beside the roaring fire, Kirilar looked anything but comfortable as she breathed, with a far-off look in her eyes, "he'll still eat us."

Aran poured over it for a while. "Is that what you're fantasizing about these days? I could probably arrange that, but he's kind of shy down there." Her dirty humor was enough to snap Kirilar from her reverie long enough to notice the arrival of the Queen.

She made a stumbling show of bowing, despite her sister's complete ease with their guest, then quickly looked to meet her gaze, almost as if on some telepathic command.

"What did he leave behind?" she asked the Queen, who seemed undaunted by the question.

The two were awkwardly close, close enough to seem like strange mirrors of each other. The Queen's poise, her flowing gossamer nightgown, seemed to suggest the inner archmage of Kirilar, the matriarch Aran knew she could be. In Kirilar's nude, lithe body, she saw a reflection of the fey nature of the Queen, some inner sprite eager to roam the wilds free of responsibility, of duty, of crown.

Both stared knowingly and purposefully at the other, sharing some invisible secret, stirring awkward jealousy in Aran, the fly on the wall.

"What part of him did it devour?"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Aran butted in, now standing almost confrontationally. Kirilar met her gaze levelly, but the Queen still wore a thousand-yard stare.

"You're a Moonflower too. Don't you remember?" Kirilar approached her sister closely, examining her eyes almost like a physician sizing her up for lenses.

"I'm not...really a Moonflower. And neither are you, silly. You know that. I mean..." a quick embarassed look at the Queen realized she wasn't paying attention, and nobody cared about the faux pas.

"We are. And we are not. We are Nightsbane, and we are Moonflower."

"I'm not...Nightsbane," Aran mused as she recalled where she'd heard the name before, and mulled over the meaning of the name Durothil, not in its native Elvish, but in the tongue of the Illythiiri. Durothil meant, literally, "the slayer of night", but in Illythiiri culture, one must become what one slays. She had sensed something in that high mage, that Durothil, a warrior spirit the likes of which she rarely encountered. It had put her into battle readiness despite the aura of the Queen, despite the profound emotions she had felt there. It was what put such courage and yet such vanity into him in the first place.

"No," said the Queen, now looking directly at her. "You are Night."

It had been over a week since the battle with the simians, and no one was happier than Juron. He hadn't had reason to cast so much as a spell since then, barring the occasional teleport back to the ship for an evening meal--Aran was quite insistent on those.

It was at one particular evening meal he sat, enduring what she called cooking as he dared his taste buds to accept this latest experiment, flank steaks of something called a "sirrush" that Erik had killed. It didn't matter too much if the meat was poisonous, as he always marked each morning with a Heroes' Feast, but he hoped he didn't have to dip into any healing spells. In any case, the wine was good...Elverquisst was always good.

It was a fairly typical evening, as best as he could tell. The Queen was off on a wander, as he'd heard she was wont to do, leaving the cabin to just the original crew.

Aran was busy feeding large cuts of steak to Erik, who politely took them, in clear discomfort with fullness or perhaps the odd taste of the beast's flesh. Kirilar hadn't bothered with the meal, taking one look at the steak and choosing to dine on guavas. She sat unconcernedly on a nearby sofa, reading a book of some sort, humming quietly to herself.

Zak seemed at least to relish the meal, taking an uncharacteristic pleasure in the bloody, nearly rare steak; it seemed so odd, this conflux of beauty and ugliness, and yet somehow right. That one was trouble, he'd always known, and he vowed never to forget the zeal with which he pursued the summoning of the terrible demon god Orcus.

And then there was the lovely Alisannara. She, too, had taken to the meal with aplomb, savoring the meat almost provocatively. He was fascinated by her motions, her seeming lust for flesh, watching her tongue savor the blood that leaked from the carcass as she pierced it with her sharp teeth...

"I have melons!" came the jarring voice of Aran.

His mind must have wandered, because she had gone, and was reentering the dining room carrying a platter of sliced melons. The strange, purple melons, so plentiful on this island, had been a staple of their diet, and he could see why; they were sweet, but not abundantly so, with a firm texture and a satisfying aftertaste. It was difficult to describe the flavor, exactly, except as..."purple".

"No one wants to eat your melons," came the snarky voice of Kirilar, who hadn't even looked up from her book to voice her unwanted opinion.

"I'll take some," said Alisannara as she craned around to observe them. Something about her poise seemed to suggest she was almost ready to pounce on Aran, and yet that didn't seem at all dangerous, but even alluring. The long, graceful lines of her neck were accentuated as she twisted; her bust protruded as she arced her back to better peer over the head of her chair. Her minimal shirt, already struggling to contain its bounty on account of being borrowed from Aran, surrendered well above her midriff, barely covering the first few ribs. Her ebony skin shone in the candlelight, her perfect curves sang out like music...

"Put this in your mouth," said Aran, snapping him back into reality. He was almost unable to resist as a melon slice was thrust at him. He'd not had many of them before; they weren't exactly his cup of tea, but they were certainly better than the salty animal flesh.

As the rogue moved on to pester others, he noticed Alisannara rise. As she drew herself to her statuesque height, she somehow seemed to let all the dirtiness of the meal, the earthy reality of her presence wash away, and was replaced with her usual ethereal mien. As she started forward in long strides toward the door to the patio, Juron's heart skipped a beat as she reach around her back with her long, slender arms and untied the straps of her shirt; they snapped away with an almost audible sigh of relief, allowing the near-useless garment to fall to the floor.

"Well, I...that is...where is she going?" Juron asked as she disappeared out the door, aghast that no one else seemed to think oddly of this, or even bother noticing.

"She must be going to the hot tub. Sounds like fun!" Aran abandoned her arduous task of pestering Kirilar to head out with her, careful to seize Erik by the shoulder, interrupting a long draught of wine, and insisting he come along. Soon, he was alone with Zak and Kirilar.

Zak took one look at the departing elves and seemed to think on it, but was interrupted by the gold elf. "Zak, come and give me a massage," Kirilar crooned in her most seductive voice, as she leered over the edge of the sofa like a prowling cat. Zak must have seen more allure in that look than Juron, for he complied, gliding over in all his usual angelic countenance.

As he observed Kirilar draped over Zak's lap, twitching and moaning slightly with each furtive rub, he began to feel uncomfortable. He didn't really want to be here, he wanted to be with Alisannara, but was she with the others? But then, did it matter? What would they say? Has he no right to be here? The others don't seem to respect their privacy, why should he?

Of course, he did, that was the problem. But he had another problem. For the last ten days, it had been only he and his god, and though he loved Labelas with all his heart (though in a strictly "buddies" kind of way (not that there's anything wrong with the alternative)), his god just didn't fill a certain void within him. Or rather, was missing a certain void to fill.

He literally heard the last sentence in his head in Kirilar's voice, and it made him cringe, shaking his head vigorously as if to rid himself of the invasive thoughts. As he did so, he felt Zak's attention turn to him, as one always does when Zak shines his countenance upon you.

"Why don't you go join Alisannara?" he sang in his always-cherubic voice, which, despite putting the fiercest tiger at ease with every breath, could also convey the deepest disregard or contempt, and Juron was never quite sure what to read into it.

"Well, perhaps I will," he returned as confidently as he could. It sounded good in his head, but he couldn't shake the feeling that somehow, Zak had won. Won what, he couldn't say.

As he strode through the door, it closed behind him, perhaps at the will of the warlock. It didn't matter, he was outdoors now, and a few steps closer to Alisannara.

The night was cool, almost chilly. The tall pines stood silent vigil over the cabin, an honor guard to the high moon which illuminate the lake better than any army of fire sprites ever could. The lower deck of the cabin extended into the lake itself, barely a foot above the water, and the so-called "hot tub" was literally a section of the lake, cordoned off with walls of force, and kept at a steamy temperature through liberal application of magic.

It was in this tub that the three sat. Aran was babbling away about something; it wasn't nearly too far away to understand, but his mind certainly was. Erik was looking pensively to the stars, obviously uninterested, but definitely enjoying the company of the two beautiful women. Juron felt a pang of jealousy as he saw Alisannara sitting right next to him, although only one of Erik's long, thick, pale arms was around a woman, and it was Aran.

And just what was Aran, anyway? A fiance? A girlfriend? A fling? A conquest? He didn't know, and tried not to care, but some part of him felt a stinging need for definition, and, for all the thing he knew they did behind closed doors, he thought there should be some kind of committment, recorded in the annals of the Timekeeper, immortalized so as to immortalize their love.

Which is exactly what he wanted from Alisannara.

He never in a million lifetimes thought he would have fallen for a drow, but as he advanced toward her, and gazed upon her radiant beauty, he couldn't imagine how could ever not. She was a goddess, her ebony skin the perfect shade, her white hair the silkiest of any celestial being, her voluptuous features worth killing for, worth betraying any creed or conscience.

As he arrived, he saw a pang of annoyance in Aran, who didn't seem to care about his presence so much as the interruption he represented to her precious story. Erik, on the other hand, extended a welcoming hand, seemingly glad to have him along. It was odd to see him so friendly, but strangely comforting.

And of course her...she said nothing at all, barely seemed to notice him. Perhaps she, too, was caught up in her own magnificence. Juron certainly was; he struggled to bare himself before climbing into the pool.

"Good evening friends," he said, and, turning to Alisannara, "my dear." She nodded slightly, but it could have just been a small adjustment, which she followed by laying back even more languidly, her head resting on the force-wall of the pool, her neck outstretched, her chest so far removed from the water that her breasts seemed to float in the water like giant buoys.

Buoys of Eyeball Attraction +5, that is.

There was a long, awkward silence, as Aran seemed to hold Juron accountable for interrupting her fascinating tale, and shrunk self-consciously against Erik, presumably for Juron's crime of noticing Alisannara's astounding beauty instead of her own modest attractiveness.

"So what of this world?" came Erik's voice, boldly sundering the silence. "You've traveled it far, perhaps further than I've ever traveled in our home. Surely you must have seen much."

"Indeed," Juron replied with an arched eyebrow, glad to find a topic almost interesting enough to distract him from the languid, skyclad goddess prostrate before him.

"I have flown over endless leagues, and seen a thousand islands. Most are no larger than this one, though a few are. One seemed to dominate them all, and itself was dominated by a great mountain, larger than any I've seen on Toril, certainly volcanic in nature. That island...almost certainly has a primitive civilization of sorts."

"Simians?"

"Seemingly," he quipped, but no one seemed to grasp his humor. "They know enough to congregate in tribes, and have even mastered primitive building skills...lean-to's, and the like."

"No forges, though...nowhere they might have fashioned such...incredible things."

Juron shook his head. "Certainly not. The simians seem to be just keen enough to realize rocks hit harder than fists. They're probably a thousand years away from making axes and spears, and ten from bows and slings."

"What about fire?"

Juron wrinkled his brow. "Curious, that. I have studied much, and primitive civilizations certainly figured somewhere in there. It seems to me even the simplest of sentient creatures understands the value of fire. But I never saw a one, not even a cooking fire."

"Maybe they're all vegetarians," Aran added, somehow with a kind of snotty undertone, as if it was meant to be a dig at him, personally.

"I suppose so. I didn't exactly examine their...spoor, or anything. But there are plenty of other uses for it."

"Perhaps it's more dangerous than we think, when you live on an island with a limited supply of arable land and trees," Erik mused. "And rarer, one would imagine."

"Possibly, but that volcanic island had no shortage of lava flows; they've seen fire."

"Maybe they're just afraid of it," Aran concluded, and it made more sense than any other explanation.

He felt abliged to break the tenuous silence.

"And they haven't returned?" A quick gesture from Erik confirmed it. "That is good. This was meant to be a safe haven, somewhere we could enjoy a little respite from our many, many travails."

He paused, then, "and have you? Had time, that is, and...the respect, to...that is..."

"It's been wonderful," Aran sang, enunciating her words to convey the depth of her sentiment, as she embraced her lover and sat astride him, face to face. He seemed slightly uncomfortable, but soon a lot less so.

"Hasn't it, darling," she cooed, maneuvering herself in a way that suggested the unthinkable.

Juron was saved from a grand embarassment by Alisannara's abrupt rise. The drops of water cascading from her majestic body sparkled in ecstasy, as if delighted to have felt the touch of her enticing flesh.

As she strode away from the pool, he found ample excuse to follow, leaving Aran and her mate to their hedonistic display. Alisannara strode too quickly to give him time to dry, so he simply grabbed his robes and sped after her.

Uncaring of the chill on her nude, wet body, she stepped off the deck and onto the cool ground, starting into a long circle around the lake. He was as concerned for her well-being as he was aroused at the prospect...at least the hint...of a midnight indulgence on their part.

She broke from the lake and headed for the forest. In the depths of its darkness, cloaked by the long shadows of great pines, he almost lost her. He could feel her warmth more so than see her, and his latent elven vision, while not nearly as adept as a full-blooded elf, began to latch onto the her faint aura in the dimness.

As he caught up to her, he started in roughly, between breaths, "where are you going?"

He had hoped it to sound more subtle and ten times more sexy, but he'd been running, on a full stomach no less, and all despite the cold on his wet skin and the sharp needles crunching beneath his feet.

"Into the wild," she replied simply, and ran.

He couldn't have that. The way she departed, the way she moved in the darkness, it aroused some deep instinct within him, something beyond the ken of man, something far back in his elven heritage, before men had wives and women had rules.

He ran.

He ran like a wolf follows it prey, like a doe flees the wolf. He ran like the stream over the cliff, like the river as it floods, he ran until there was no more running to be done.

She led him on the merriest of chases, over rocks, through needly brush, and up a sheer cliff, which he'd been so incensed with lust he'd forgotten he could have easily flown up instead of climbed.

He found her facing a sheer drop, a miscalculated climb leading her to a lesser peak amidst the columns of stone surrounding the lake. She turned to face him, and the look in her eyes made her look for all the world like a starving wolf, and him feel like a nice, juicy steak.

When Kirilar tired of the screams echoing across the great distance and over the lake, she teleported herself and Zak back to the ship for some quiet time.

The morning brought with it pains like lawyers and creditors descending on a family after their patron's death. Juron fought the urge to pay them any mind, as he could only take in the breathtaking beauty of Alisannara, nude beside him, her body thrusting proudly into the morning air, her deep breaths shaking dew droplets gently from her breasts.

They'd found themselves on the ground, near the lake, hundreds of feet lower than they'd started. The earth was punctured nearby, like the soil beneath a melee of plated knights after a battle. Tree branches lay severed on the forest floor, seeming almost to quiver as the still-green needles cried out in pain.

And though his body was cut, bruised, and scratched so many times over, she looked perfectly fine, almost serene in her gentle repose, stretching cat-like as she began to stir.

"Good morning, my dear," he managed, and this time, it came out just right.

She glanced around, as surprised as he at her surroundings, but uncaring for it, She sat, chest to her knees, and stretched her neck a few ways. It was as delicious a posture as any, but nothing about it suggested a return to the night's passion, as he had hoped.

"I fear you may have awakened the dead last night." He was hoping for a laugh, a chuckle, or, far more so, a sultry glare, but got nothing.

She simply stood and began to walk back.

He gathered himself (though not his robes, those were long gone), and followed, finding her difficult to keep up with. Though she couldn't simply outpace him, she seemed almost to be trying somehow to outmaneuver him, as if it could be so hard to track someone across the surface of the lake, which they were casually walking atop with the simplest of magics.

"Does something trouble you, my lady?" he asked, his concern for her becoming more and more infused with self-consciousness as they bore down on the cabin in broad daylight. "Have I...offended you?"

She snorted his question away. He simply couldn't fathom what was bothering you.

"Are you hurt in any way? I could attend to you...as I'm sure you could, of course, that is...I simply wish..."

"I don't...wish...anything," she returned with a very serious look, clearly fighting back some of the more colorful drowic phrases she had been known, uncommonly, to utter in dire times. "I don't need anything."

"That is well, my lady, I'm glad of it. I'm simply here the moment you do." She seemed to shake his words off like an unwanted touch. He decided it would be wiser to end there, and to give her much-needed space. He watched her go (always a delight in itself), then teleported himself to his shrine upon the ship, where he could easily access his other stored clothes and accoutrements.

He returned the cabin after freshening up and mending his many pains, in time for a hearty breakfast prepared not by Aran, but by...Erik, it seemed.

The chef surprised him with an array of sliced fruits, cold meats from last night draped over forest greens and sprinkled with a variety of spices, and carafes of the many and varied fruit juices of the island. He worked with fervor and purpose, like a smith at a forge, but with the carefree grace of a lad at play.

"Good morning, priest," he shouted over the loud noise of frying bacon on the stovetop as he scrubbed a cutting board in the basin. The word "priest" seemed to echo in his mind, with each rebound gathering more guilt for his wild misdeeds, and, more cuttingly, more concern for Alisannara.

"Good morning, fellow, of to an early start this morning?"

Erik only chuckled as he flipped the iron skillet, sending the bacon into a high arcing spin, spilling nothing.

"I had no idea you were such a talented chef."

"Yes, well," he scraped a mass of fried eggs onto a plate, "Aran has taught me many things."

"Yes...many things, I imagine." He chuckled to himself as he sat on the sofa nearest the dining table. In that room he was surprised to see Kirilar snoozing quietly, still wearing her evening dress from last night.

"Oh dear, Kirilar, are you well?"

"Don't bother, she's out like a light," came the loud shout of the chef from the other room. Sure enough, neither he nor Erik had roused her in the slightest. She slept the sleep of the innocent.

Juron relaxed for a time, as much as he could given his jumbled thoughts of Alisannara. He tried to make sense of their relationship thus far. When it began, much as it was now, it was she who made all the moves. She never showed any interest until the moment before she desired him, and though she always seemed to enjoy herself more so than any woman he'd ever...well, she was the only woman, but still, she was like a wild animal in bed. And yet, afterward, there was never much tenderness; there had always been something to do, some pressing matter, but now, as far as he knew, there was none.

Perhaps there was? Perhaps she was concerned with the great matters ahead? She had a grave duty to perform, and would undergo many trials in the name of her faith. Perhaps she even questioned that duty, and questioned the nature of her obligations. He could forgive her easily, as he had done the same many times.

He was rousted from his reverie by the always-jarring appearance of Aran. She was hard to notice, but not to him--she was sneaking down the stairs, in full view of the living room, but hidden from the kitchen. She must have meant to surprise Erik, but her timing was poor; he was just on his way toward the stairwell with platters in hand to return the surprise. Deprived of her opportunity, she simply leapt up onto him, managing somehow to find purchase in his busy arms and curl around his head; he commended the man for keeping himself, the girl, and all his hard work balanced.

It wasn't long before Zak descended, quite literally, from his bedchamber; through a skylight, he wafted down like a feather, looking refreshed from a morning flight. The bastard always looked perfect in the morning.

When prodding failed Aran, Zak managed with the lightest touch to bring forth Kirilar from her torpor. She seemed to be in mid thought, awakening with a startled yelp, but soon relaxed with a deep, contented sigh, demanding more time to sleep. Upon which, of course, Aran took to the task of prying her from her erstwhile bed with delight.

They soon convened for breakfast, and no compliment was spared the chef, not even from Zak, who despite it had returned to his normal pattern of pecking gently at his food, choosing each morsel carefully. Aran devoured hers in what seemed like mere moments, and soon took to pilfering Kirilar's, which she guarded jealously in a most uncharacteristic way. Juron had to admit, it was quite good.

But it was soured by Alisannara's absence, notable even to the regulars who had not seen her miss a meal in days.

"So I, uh," Aran began, and Juron knew he was in for a treat. She managed to continue her thought through loud, snapping mastications of a gummy fruit, "I heard you guys had some fun last night."

"Everybody heard," Zak added, his almost imperceptible smirk and raised eyebrow underscoring her point more pointedly than a vorpal blade.

"Well I...and what is so wrong with that? Do we not all parade around our passions in this place? Does not Aran lavish over her mate, or Kirilar so brazenly bask in Zak's pleasures?"

The awkward silence and the annoyed looks (except from Zak, who looked, as ever, quite pleased with himself) seemed to suggest his tone may not have come out at all like he intended.

"That is...I only suggest that we are here to enjoy ourselves, not to...worry about..."

"I see the Queen is joining us this morning," came the welcome voice of Alisannara as she boldly entered the cabin, wearing a similar outfit to what she'd been wearing when last they'd met.

Juron craned his neck to see if Her Majesty followed, or was somehow already in attendance, but no one else seemed to be that interested; in fact, Zak and Kirilar chuckled, sharing a knowing glance.

"Is Her Majesty coming here? What business does she attend to when she is not? Is it normaly for her to be so...distant?" Juron looked to the others. Aran had joined the other two with muffled snickers, and Erik wore a slightly pained expression.

"No, I do not think she shall attend," he answered simply, politely not noticing as the very nude and quite uncaring Alisannara set herself down and took to dining with typical unrestrained delight.

The combination of the snickering fools, Alisannara's grand indecency, and the inescapable feeling that he wasn't being let in on some joke drove him quickly to his limit.

"And just what do you think you are doing, missy, strutting around like that?!"

As the words came out, he felt each one shatter against his better judgment, which buckled like a glass shield against an iron hammer. Each one stung his ears like a dagger, driving nails into his heart with the cold realization of possibilities lost, wounds thrust deep into an already tender fabric of friendship.

And yet, even as he condemned himself, he doubted his judgment; some part of his demanded his words to be heard, demanded that he speak his mind and be done with such foolish restraint. Who was he to be silenced? How great a crime should it be do live a moral life, and to expect the same of others? He had let them all fall so far with his lax guidance, and it was his responsibility to unmake his failure.

It wasn't much comfort as Alisannara shot him the coldest stare he had ever seen.

She stood to her full height, and a small but icy fear shot through him as he empathized with her many victims. As she stood proud and defiant before him, he finally saw her as she was, a Priestess of Lolth, a hardened drow matron, and he felt as must all the males who displease their mistresses in her black, evil world.

"I do what I please, elf, as I have always done and shall always do. I am beautiful, and I am free. I have no imperfections to cover, no shame or guilt, and I certainly need no protection from one such as you."

As she strode around the table, he almost summoned the will to argue, but her own leapt from her icy eyes to crash against his resolve, easily penetrating and subduing it.

"You, Juron, are an adequate lover, but far too concerned for things that are not yours. My feelings, my needs, are not yours to know, and are not in your power to care for. I take what I wish when it pleases me, as I have taken from you, and from others," she added with a glance backward. Aran and Kirilar both hung their heads in quiet shame, and Juron's stunned silence was only reinforced by their startling admission.

The cooing voice of Zak, perhaps the only one that could have survived interrupting her, began with "yes, we have all enjoyed the gracious pleasure of Alisannara. She is the most beautiful of her kind I have ever seen, and I was honored to lay with her, time and time again."

Juron hated...so much...about the things...he chose...to say.

Even his thoughts were staggered between furious breaths.

"And is that what love is to you, drow," he added with just enough emphasize to fall short of the word's true connation, which, despite that, he meant with all his heart, at least in that moment. "Have you all tasted her kiss, suckled at her bosom," as he went on with unrestrained words he saw the signs of contention in only Erik, restoring faith in at least that one among his treacherous friends.

"Love?" she spat at him, with more disdain and contempt for the word than has any Elven tongue uttered the word "drow."

"What is love? What do you speak of? Love is not sex, it is not friendship, it is not what child feels for mother. These things are weaknesses, temporary failures of our resolve, and the ruination of those who indulge. The only true love you or I will ever know comes from our true faith...if indeed it is so true."

For all she had said, for all it pained him, he had held out hope of some reconciliation, but with this...unthinkable affront...she had crossed the line.

"You question my faith, temptress?! How dare you!" Juron stoud as proud and defiant as she, yet seemed smaller in the comparison, some crack in his foundation weakening his stance.

"You think me ignorant of your faiths as you are of mine? I know of the teachings of Labelas Enoreth. You have raised the dead, you have sought to undermine the future of the Elven race...you even seek immortality, to defy the death He proscribed for you. And yet you remain so sure of your faith."

"Vile witch!" he spat, ready to fight, but all were soon cowed by the booming voice of Erik.

"That is enough!"

Silence prevailed, and none dare question it, for it served at the behest of the Unstoppable Warrior.

"You will not fight in my house! This place is Sanctuary! There will be no more words, only blades if you do not cease!"

Juron, for his love--unhindered by mistrust and betrayal--of his friends, was the first to back down. Confidently, Alisannara strode away, but not before leaving a parting shot.

"I only wish you were the Queen," she uttered, "she's got more balls than you ever will." Juron restrained himself, as did Erik only seeing that she was heading for the door.

Just before she could step out, the true Queen stepped in.

Her countenance caught them all off guard. The saccharine bliss of Zak's beauty, the artistic perfection of Alisannara's body, these things could not prepare any of them for the profound experience of the Elven Queen.

To call it Beauty undermines the concept. To call it Grace is to call a swan a duck. To call her presence Soothing is to name ecstasy torture.

The only one who did agree was Alisannara, but even she was visibly cowed by the Queen's entrance, and quickly fled behind her.

As she wafted into the room like a sweet morning breeze, she seemed to gather herself, that which she had let slip all over the house, that which had penetrated the eyes and souls of all who observed. Soon, her presence was retracted into her person, and she was bearable again, dimmer, yet not gone, like the sun behind a cloud.

"I have much to tell, and much to ask."

All were silent, awaiting her words.

"But first," she added with a smile, "is there more? Even the spirits of my Reverie left me when they smelled your cooking."

Aghast with disbelief, Erik rose from his genuflection and scrambled to serve her some eggs.

Dining with the Queen was a surreal experience, both on its own merits, what with the awkwardness of her presence, both casual and overpoweringly majestic, and with the rage and the pain of betrayal that had vanished so quickly that it still echoed within Juron's hollow heart.

After the feast, he listened to the words she spoke, and perhaps offered a few of his own, but could not stop thinking about Alisannara. Some part of her still longed for her, urging him to forget his pain and forgive her, anything to taste her again...deeper in his heart, he acutely felt the loss not of her love, but of his own, that which he had foolishly given her, that which she wasted so callously. As he went through the motions of conversation, he wondered if he would ever love again.

But, as he looked into the Queen's eyes, he wondered how it was he had never loved before.