A matter of note

"See," Citrine began, "I just finished a paintball match against a particular group of women. With the chance to win a different outfit."

"What sort of attire?" inquired Liz, new to Valhalla but suspecting the devils that oversaw this place would be as good daylight robbers as any official.

"I didn't find out, but even here, I figured I'd get something better than this." With a scowl oft only given to rot, yet still quite beautiful when placed upon her comely face, Citrine gestured to the threads and teeth that made her wholly lacking attire. "Anyway I lost, so it didn't matter. But one of the awards those bitches got was to rewrite my bio."

Liz had yet to learn that bio was biography shortened, and briefly wondered what biology had to do with this rage, but assumed she'd be given context soon.

"And I know I may have escalated things a few days ago by changing a certain catsuit to completely display a certain someone's breasts, but those bitches, oh those bitches." Rage provoked action within the scorned such that she paced the space of her porch once, before elucidating her agitation. "They added a few words those words, teeth-prancer, and warrior-rider." She huffed her chest out. "Implying quite rudely that I lead the men of my tribe not with my example as a skilled fighter, but by twerking my tush for them. Ridiculous." The slighted party accompanied her last clause with an exaggerated arse wiggle intended to show the absurdity of such a statement, and at the at the enunciation of tush appropriately smacked her not covered leg-lard.

At such a display, Liz could only nod, finding such an argument provoking indeed.

"Oh, but the worst is yet to come. Those uppity cunts had the gaul to call this," Citrine gestured wildly to her lacking garments, "traditional battle armor, not battle dress, even though that'd be wrong too. Battle. Armor." Her expression evoked a cobra as she bared her fangs and reared her head, exaggerating her anger. "Like this offered some sort of protection."

Liz allowed a witt-wicking grin to tug her checks. "Maybe if your opponent aimed real careful." To illustrate and advance her humor, Liz drew her pistol and with deliberate slowness, delicately clubbed it upon the teat-covering teeth.

"Exactly," Citrine responded snapping her fingers, her mouth had flattened to a neutral expression, but her nostrils still bloomed with annoyance. "You get how ridiculous it is, but those half-brain guests would believe grass was bright pink if they read it on a plaque. I just know I'm going to get questions about which teeth I prefered for my armor, or if a belly chain would make it heavy armor." She shook her fist at the observers along the far dock.

"Aye, your paint would seem to offer more protection," added Liz, quite sympathetic to the woman's lack of attire. At least the speckled patterns upon her neckline and stomach seemed to cover something.

"Well it does offer protection in a way, but that's a story for a different time. Don't worry about me," she stated, the lids upon her fiery eyes descended until she glared out through brown gems in parallel to her war paint. "I'll get back at those bitches. I always win."

The instigator of her irritation seemed evidence to the contrary, but Liz saw no reason to challenge what was likely merely an exaggeration.

Collecting her black locks behind her ears the battle beauty found some grime. "Right, I was going to wash," she said sourly looking at the smear on her finger. "You mind if I continue?"

Liz shock her head and watched with interest as the well-shaped and hardly-clad woman walked away. The teeth meant to cover her seemed keen to plunge between the bonnie rounds of her arse, an interest Liz could hardly fault them for.

Finding intrigue in how this warrior washed, Liz followed her around the hut and saw a waterfall pattering steadily off the humble cliff and onto a floor of flat rocks. Rivulets flowed between these to a pool large enough to sit that itself drained slowly into the ocean. 'Twas indeed quite an enticing set up, all the more when Citrine stepped under the smattering water. The barely-clothed beauty washed herself delicately splashing off her paint and any grime that was upon her, her skin glistening like caramel fresh and warm. Under the irresistible pull of a relaxing wash, she closed her eyes. In a neutral state her features were still very fierce, calling to mind the phrase "drop dead;" however this was now mostly as a measurement of her gorgeousness and only partly a statement exuding from the intimidation resting withing the crisp curves of her face.

Incontrovertibly, an enticing face, and an enticing woman. What could one do with her passion or drive to be the best? Pondering other wet possibilities, Liz remained a moment enjoying the view of water pouring down a sculpture seemingly made from the setting sun, colored trails of the formerly terrify war paint snaking away with the water.

Ah but were there not more delights to be found in this place? Across The Governess's Estate: quite possibly. Throughout Valhalla: for certain. Non would be equal to Citrine for each woman had her own uniqueness to explore, but for at this time the lust to wander was stronger within Liz. Perhaps later, she'd return and attempt a trade of that oldest commodity. For the moment, however, the rover let this desire ache, all the better to appreciate its release. And all the better to build such a want in her quarry, Liz chose an Irish goodbye.