Lavorra’s new home

Set the Scene:

Complication: [5] All is not as it seems

Altered Scene: [2] Normal

She places the heavy, leather bound tome back on the bookshelf, humming absently to herself.

A very strange story, full of forest spirits and daemons.

Quite too much for her delicate tastes. She giggles, brushing her smooth, straight red hair back behind her shoulders, green eyes tracing their way over the towering shelves.

Simply marvellous.

Still, there is something about the story that lingers with her. A redheaded Elvenwoman, like herself, but with a bushy mane of hair. Getting into all sorts of scrapes. Very unseemly. Nothing she’d ever do. She giggles again.

Lavorra wears a long, flowing white gown, the sleeves wide and hanging, her waist wrapped in a flattering corset, her ample breasts supported by a low cut bodice. On bare feet, she crosses to the door of the library, listening intently, biting her lip with excitement.

“You may as well come in, if you’re going to be lurking around.” Sir Henry’s voice calls from inside his study.

She slips inside, stepping lightly into Sir Henry’s study, as always in awe at the array of wondrous artefacts, devices, magical apparatus, and creature comforts at this most enchanting part of the wizard’s tower.

Lavorra grins, hands behind her back demurely, as she waltzes over to his desk, where he sits, leaning back in the luxurious armchair. Sir Henry is an older man, with a sensible head of greying hair, a cropped beard. But his jaw is firm and his features are handsome and mature, his physique still well-kept and strong.

Very strapping, for a wizard.

She reaches the desk, padding around it on petite bare feet, tracing a finger along the edge of the wood. Then she squeals, as Sir Henry grabs her around the waist, lifting her onto his lap, his strong, lined hands firmly clasped around her bottom.

“Naughty girl.” He chides, hands sliding up her hips, her waist, and over her full bosom. “If I've told you once I’ve told you a hundred times, you’re not to listen at keyholes. All these years you’ve lived here with me, and you’re still that cheeky Elven strumpet.”

“I am not!” She gasps, breaking into giggles again. “Will you be done soon Elantir? I’m terribly bored.”

Her voice is girlish and sing-song, but there is a suggestive purr when she slips in the Elven term of endearment, her eyes wide and mischievous. She rolls her hips in his lap, pressing herself against him.

“What if I’d had guests? Would you have been such a minx then?” He rumbles, hands back on her hips, moving her legs to make her straddle him. His hand slips lower, working its way under her dress and up her thigh, pressing against her silken underclothes.

Lavorra gasps plaintively as his powerful fingers caress between her legs. “You could invite guests. And ha-ahh~ Have me under your duh-desk the whole time.”

She moans, rocking her hips against his hand, thighs gripping him.

“And you’d like that, you cock-hungry little pixie.” He laughs, pushing her off with a quick slap of her rear. “Away with you. I have a little more work to do. And then I’ll come find you, and you’ll service your Elantir.”

She pouts in dismay as their play is cut short, but beams at his command. She lives to obey his every wish, lives to kiss and suck and lick and take… because he is her world and her Sir.

She pads away, pausing only to glance at a painting on the wall. A ship making for a sunny port. It reminds her of something, or someone. A red-skinned Tiefling girl, aboard a ship? A friend? But she doesn’t have friends, she has her Sir Henry. A red skinned Tiefling girl with curly black hair - no that’s someone else. With pretty little buns in her hair. Kali… ana?

No. It’s nothing. Nothing important.