Silver Blades: Prize Fight

Part 1, Section 1 - The Grotto

15th of Dauroj, L.E.Y. 3252

Pertuli.

I leaned against worn Dorondian marble, luxuriating in soft currents of near-scalding water as they caressed and soothed tired muscles. Eyes closed, I soaked in the heat, breathed out my worries in long slow breaths, smiled at the pleasant sounds of frivolity echoing down the halls from nearby grottos, and mentally readied myself for the day.

It was a big one.

Only two days into the Flowering Festival, I had to pace myself. There were nine more days of flirtatious revelry, song and dance, and, of course, feasting on the Spring's bounty to anticipate. In the Ill'Enniniess Hall, it was a raucous time of intimate camaraderie for Tilwen of all ages, but especially for the young who were just learning to experience what it meant to be the sensate spirits of Mother Terrok.

"Come back to me," purred Cafilenniel's musical voice. She was my current pupil, although her raw talent was hardly undeveloped. "Your thoughts have taken you far away, but I'm not done with you yet."

I opened one eye and peeked at her, the corner of my mouth lifting.

Cafi, at 14 hands tall, was practically an imp. Her warm coloration was breathtaking, and recent exertions amplified the glow suffusing her rosy skin. Like a tawny doe newly grown, she was sleek and beautiful. Her slight frame was perky, and trembling with enthusiasm though she was only old enough to have participated in Flowering perhaps ten times before.

"There you are," she smiled, interspersing her words with pouty kisses placed artfully along my left collarbone. "Aren't you rested yet?"

"You know," I smiled, "we are meant to be washing before the day's revels begin."

"We can be late," she ruled prettily, tucking a wet lock of dark gold over one delicately pointed ear so she could reach my throat properly. "Everyone else will be."

She began flicking her tongue up my throat and, all thoughts of washing driven away, my eyelids fluttered closed. Cafi had learned a lot in the last ten years.

"For once my dear," I sighed with a shudder of pleasure, "I find myself disinclined to argue."

The satisfied murmur that escaped her throat was nearly feline, and she trailed her left hand down my chest and into the dark water.

"There you are!" A familiar male voice angrily declared.

"Ah," I groaned. "Faultless timing as always," I complained. Cafi's hand paused in its journey as she looked up to see who our visitor was. I refrained from giving it a nudge of encouragement, but only just.

"Lord Riposte!" she observed in surprise, a sentiment quickly replaced by breathless hope. "Oh! Are you joining us?"

"Blessed Flowering—I beg your pardon fair Cafilenniel," he said, rushing through the barest function of etiquette, although regret didn't reach his eyes or even permeate his voice to any notable extent. "But I must borrow a few minutes of your friend's time, by your leave."

"I guess," she pouted, disappointment plain on her face. She pulled away from me, and even in the magically heated water the sudden absence of her body's warmth was regrettable. Hot blooded little minx.

She gave me a final coy glance, and pushed away from our submerged seating to glide across the pool, wiggling her exquisite backside playfully as she kicked in long smooth strokes. Rippling under the dark water, the silhouette of her fair skin in the dim chamber resembled nothing so much as a seductive water spirit floating just beneath the surface.